Triumph and Disaster
by Genevastar
Summary: The Olympic Games are over. Safely. And the officers of Section D can relax. Or can they?
1. Chapter 1

_This story follows on from A Host Of Low Truths, with some new characters created by me because I couldn't bear to use Beth or Dmitri. I have taken nothing from series 10 except for Callum. For reasons of simplicity (and laziness) I have omitted the Paralympics. I think all that makes the story AU._

_All 'Spooks' characters from the show belong to the BBC and Kudos. The ones I have invented belong to me. _

TRIUMPH AND DISASTER

"Morning, boss." The greeting was accompanied by a whiff of coffee and the sound of a yawn of record-breaking proportions followed by a martyred 'ouch'. "Sorry. Jaw cracked."

Rosalind Myers looked up with a scowl. "I'm surprised your skull didn't join in. Not to mention your vertebrae. And would you mind _not_ doing that all over the place anyway? You might not have noticed, but - " she stopped and gritted her own teeth to prevent the escape of a matching yawn.

" – it's catching," Lucas North finished helpfully. He perched on the edge of her desk and nodded towards the coffee cup next to her computer. "How many's that so far this morning?"

As he spoke, another bleary-eyed officer walked past with a mumbled greeting. He too was clasping an extra-large cup of coffee. Ros nodded at him, and then fixed Lucas with as penetrating a stare as her leaden eyelids would permit.

"Three," she said shortly.

Lucas chuckled wearily. "Maybe they should have added a Coffee Marathon to the athletics events. With the hours we've been working, we'd have won the gold hands down."

Ros grunted, and gave a curt 'morning' to the Section's technical expert, Callum Reed, and two junior officers. Callum looked as if he hadn't slept for days, but the two juniors had been chatting happily, and looked irritatingly perky. Now they stopped talking simultaneously as they caught their section chief's icy expression. With a muttered greeting-cum-apology they scuttled nervously past her to their respective desks. Lucas grinned.

"Or Synchronised Silence," he offered.

"Ha bloody ha," Ros said sourly, as her phone rang. "Myers." She listened for a moment, wearily massaging her forehead. "OK." She raised her eyes towards the wall clock. "Yep, will do. No, I'm still collating reports right, left and centre. Almost. I'm still waiting for the last few." Her eyebrows rose. "With you - oh, right. OK, we'll be ready. Bye."

"Harry," she said, as she replaced the phone. "He's on his way. Wants a full Section meeting then a core team briefing."

"_Another_ one?" Lucas rolled his eyes. "What is it now – someone's judokas threatening to do an ippon on Border Agency staff unless they shorten the departure queues at Heathrow?"

Ros's smile had all the sincerity of a politician on the hustings.

"He's just left the review with the Met. Maybe he knows something we don't." She closed her eyes for a second. "Do the rounds, will you, Lucas? See how many reports are still outstanding."

Lucas swallowed the last of his coffee and stood up. "OK." He looked across to the tidy and, surprisingly, deserted desk of the senior intelligence analyst. "Where's Ruth?"

"She went to Scotland Yard with Harry." Lucas couldn't keep the surprise off his face, but before he could say anything, Ros added tartly, "Good thing too. If _I _have to face off with any more wannabe heroes in navy-blue serge and silver braid I'll start seeing them in my dreams - if I ever get to bed long enough to have any. Bloody dinosaurs. Some of them must have been around for the last Olympics, whenever it was."

"Not unless they joined the police around the age of six," Lucas said mildly. "It was 1948. We only get the Games every 50 years on average."

"Good." Ros rubbed her eyes. "That means I'll be at least ninety before we're awarded the bloody things again. Well? Are you going to make me wait that long for the reports as well?"

As Lucas hastily made his way to his own desk, she reached for the remains of her coffee, and recoiled when she saw the unappetising skin on the top. Stone cold. _Bugger it. _She contemplated going to the kitchen to make some more, calculated the risk of having to make small talk with a colleague in the process – _astronomical _– and ruled in favour of ploughing on through the stack of reports. It wasn't that she'd had anything against the Games _per se_. Section D's problem had been thwarting the plans of the assorted home grown and imported loonies that menaced all such events these days. Long gone were the heady days of 1948 where the worst threats to a smooth operation had been petrol rationing, power cuts, or a shortage of spam. The reports on her desk now contained details of a dozen major alerts they had had to cope with during the preparations and in the course of the Games themselves. Not to mention a liberal smattering of so called 'lesser' ones – everything from metal hip replacements setting off security gates to so-called security officials from foreign delegations showing a decidedly unsporting interest in things like hi-tech research, military bases and the security arrangements for prominent politicians.

_But it's over,_ she reminded herself, and - most important – _safely _and_ successfully _over with the pyrotechnics of the closing ceremony forty-eight hours previously. A rumour had started among the junior officers that Harry had actually been overheard uttering the magic word 'leave'.

_And it might even happen. _After all, the missiles were being dismantled from the roofs. The Tornados on 24-hour standby were returning to their hangars. The last few bottlenecks of squeezing teams and their equipment out through the overcrowded departure lounges of London's airports would soon be cleared. Only the endless ballet of reporting and debriefing among the various security agencies involved in the operation might take longer to complete than scheduled, Ros thought sardonically.

_If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster …_ She gave another surreptitious yawn. The press had been predicting Disaster, in various guises, mainly security, for the last year. It hadn't happened, and even her current bone-weariness couldn't quite take the shine off the glow of Triumph she felt at the Section's contribution to that.

She had just finished putting the reports – her bullying, which she preferred to think of as persistence, meant that almost all of them were there - into order when Harry Pearce arrived. For the first time in a month he was wearing a suit that wasn't crumpled, a tie that wasn't pulled halfway down his chest and an expression that _didn't _presage an eruption fit to trigger the monitors at the British Geological Survey. As ever, Ruth was at his heels, the human equivalent of Harry's elderly Jack Russell, Ros thought wryly. She nodded briefly in response to the analyst's smile, and got up as Harry crossed to her desk. Her back muscles ached after far too many hours cramped tensely into a swivel chair, and she was lightheaded from too much coffee on too little sleep. Ros ignored both the pain and the dizziness. She wouldn't let him see her fatigue.

He obviously hadn't. "Morning, Ros," he said crisply. "How does it look?"

"Most of the reports are in." Ros gestured to the stack on her desk. She tried to stifle a smile when Harry's eyes glazed over slightly at the size of it.

"Good, good," he said hastily as he saw her amusement. "Then I think we can start to stand down the alert on the Watchlist. Release some of the bodies we borrowed. And send a few more of our own on leave." Ros nodded her agreement. "Ruth and I have had a look at the rosters."

_Ruth_? With an effort, Ros stopped herself from making a retort. Staff assignments weren't Ruth's responsibility, and as far as Ros was aware – which was pretty far, she made it her business to know everything that happened on the Grid – she hadn't been near the rosters. She knew this wasn't either the time or the place to pursue the point. She would have a little chat with Ruth later. _There's more than one way to skin a cat. Even bloody Fidget._ She wouldn't have her authority undermined by Ms Evershed sucking up to teacher outside class.

"Right," she said now, but with an edge to her tone that made Harry Pearce glance sharply at her. Ros held his look coolly. "Does that include anyone on the core team?"

"Possibly. Possibly not." Ros's eyes narrowed, but before she could ask why, Harry pre-empted her. "I'll explain, Ros. Let's get the others sorted first." He raised his voice to parade-ground level. "Right, everyone, can I have your attention?"

Ros listened with half an ear as he briskly thanked his staff for their efficiency and dedicated contribution to making the Olympic security operation a success. She allowed herself a slight smile when Harry unthinkingly took up his officer's 'briefing' stance – spine rigid, legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Lucas, who was leaning casually against a pillar out of Harry's line of sight, caught her eye, winked in response, and lifted his hand to his temple in a casual salute. Hurriedly, Ros averted her eyes.

"So." Harry's peroration concluded, he gestured to Ruth, who handed him a sheet of paper. "First group for seventy-two hours leave, effective as of midday today – Foxborough, Duncombe, Williams, Newton, Ogunjimi, Al-Sharqi, Bentham, Johnson, Kay and Strachan. If any of you have reports still to turn in, get them to Ros before you leave. Then go home and get some rest. Everyone else – this roster goes on the notice board. Check your name, and if you have any queries, let Ros know. Well done, all of you. Now, back to work." Ros watched him search for her as people began to return to their desks. "Ros, Lucas, Chen Liu, Callum, Khalida and Ruth – meeting room, please."

"Doesn't look as if we're going to get to bed any time soon," Lucas murmured as they threaded their way across the Grid in Harry's wake.

Ros shot him a filthy look, and was gratified to see him look abashed as the ambiguity of his own words seeped through to his tired brain. The fact that she and Lucas _had_ occasionally been sharing the same bed since the latter's return from Bolivia was covered by the Myers code of privacy, which made the Official Secrets Act look like the hull of the Titanic. Ros had no intention of allowing speculative gossip to dog her footsteps the way it clung to the shadows of Harry and Ruth. She didn't know, and _certainly_ wouldn't ask, whether Harry had taken their relationship beyond the vague intention he had expressed to her in the pub at West End to propose to Ruth a second time. Meanwhile, the idea of giving her subordinates the slightest reason to snigger about her and Lucas in the way they did about Harry and the intelligence analyst made her skin crawl.

"Well, it won't be the first time you've 'rested your eyes' in the meeting room," she snapped at Lucas.

"Yeah." Both of them turned to see young Chen Liu, Ros's most recent recruit to the team, behind them, his almond eyes twinkling merrily behind his spectacles. "And to think I used to believe his snores were the air con playing up again." He ducked neatly out of the way as Lucas aimed a punch at his shoulder.

"Come on, come on, playtime's over." Ros waved them ahead of her into the conference room. After the crushing pressure of the last few weeks, she could understand the tomfoolery and their need to release the tension, but she could still hear Harry's '_maybe, maybe not_'. Instinct told her that while the Olympic torch might have been extinguished, Section D wasn't in the finishing straight quite yet.

"Callum! Hurry up!" The technical specialist was ambling across the room as if he was taking an evening stroll along the river. As ever, his eyes were riveted to the screen of his iPad. Ros's lip curled. If Callum's wife were ever to divorce him, she'd have to cite that bloody device as co-respondent.

"Sorry, boss." He sounded totally unconcerned. His casual, sometimes arrogant attitude towards authority irked Ros, but she was self-aware enough to recognise that it was the similarity between his behaviour and that of her younger self that made her uncomfortable. Besides, Callum's overweening self-confidence was a small price to pay for his skills with technology. They had enabled him to dodge the swingeing axe that had ended Beth Bailey's career with MI-5 and dispatched a feebly protesting Dmitri Levendis to Section F during Harry and Ros's most recent staffing review.

"You will be." That caught his attention. She firmly covered the screen, and slid the meeting room doors closed after he entered. Then she looked swiftly up and down the back corridor, and took out her inhaler. No-one other than Harry and Lucas knew she carried one. In dry, warm weather, Ros could still – almost - convince herself that she had made a full recovery from the chest injuries she had sustained in the hotel bombing. But damp, chilly weather – the UK's default setting for half the year, and this year for most of the sodding summer as well – destroyed any prolonged attempts at self-deception. If she exerted herself further than her lungs were prepared to accept, she ended up short of breath and in pain, and she had never really regained her previous levels of stamina. She depressed the nozzle of the inhaler and gave herself two short bursts, then held her breath and silently counted to ten.

"Ros?" The quiet voice made her jump out of her skin. "Are you all right?"

Ros shoved the inhaler into the pocket of her jeans and glared at Khalida Niazi.

"Why wouldn't I be? And you're late." She pointed at the meeting room doors.

Her tone would have caused most of her subordinates to run for the hills without a second thought, but the young woman's striking hazel eyes, framed by her headscarf, regarded her calmly.

"Are you unwell?"

"Are _you_ deaf?" Ros snapped, pointing again. As she did so, the doors slid open.

"Ros?" It was Harry, a frown of impatience knotting his forehead.

"Sorry, Harry." Ros jerked her head at the young Pakistani and followed her in, silently fuming. She had recruited Khalida herself from her old college at Oxford. The young woman had actually been born in Afghanistan, but had spent much of her early life in Pakistan, mainly in refugee camps. A UN resettlement programme had brought her to England, a brilliant degree in Oriental Studies, and the attention of the Service. A devout Muslim with a burning hatred for the extremists who had sullied the name of her religion, she was a promising officer with a wide range of skills, including an ability - that Ros now cursed - to move more quietly and unobtrusively than anyone she had ever met. She slid into a seat between Ruth and Callum, while Ros took her own next to Harry. The inhaler jabbed into her thigh; irritably, she covertly slid it into her jacket pocket instead. Khalida didn't scare easily. Perhaps a few days taking her turn on MI-5's Public Alert telephone hotline would be more likely than a threatening word to ensure that she forgot what she had just seen.

"Right." Harry's favourite swivel chair gave a resounding screech as he pulled it up to the table. Ros saw Ruth wince. She'd bet her next month's salary that before the end of the week the analyst would be spotted by someone oiling its constituent parts. "Ros, are all the reports in?"

She exchanged a look with Lucas who cleared his throat.

"98%, Harry. The last ones won't be complete until we've got our last few guests in the air, but the airports are coping. A couple more days."

Harry nodded. "No problems flagged?"

Lucas half-smiled. "Not unless you count a French vaulter who reckons his pole was bent as he went through security."

Ros bit her lip. Exhaustion seemed to have caused a major short-circuit between Lucas's brain and his mouth this morning. Harry Pearce's face remained impassive, but his eyes flicked to a grinning Callum Reed, who was clearly about to say something.

"Don't even think about it. Where do we stand with the Lost Boys' Brigade?"

Quiet laughter whispered its way around the table. Chen Liu had first coined the phrase when six Cameroonian athletes had mysteriously vanished from the Olympic village early on in the Games. Ros nodded to the young Chinese to answer the question.

"The Cameroonians were brought back to the village when they were spotted on the Circle Line by British Transport Police."

"What were they doing to attract their attention?" Harry enquired.

"Looking a bit bewildered, they said." Chen was trying very hard to maintain the appropriate serious demeanour. "Apparently they'd mistaken the train and were going round the Circle Line the wrong way."

This time the laughter was unrestrained. Even Harry cracked a smile.

"Must have been reading that Arabic poster they printed in gobbledygook back in the spring," Callum offered.

Ros saw Ruth take a breath, and caught her eye before the analyst could launch into an explanation of exactly what – grammatically, syntactically and historically – had been wrong with the poster. She admired Ruth's erudition as much as the next man, but she wasn't sure how many of them would be able to stay awake through one of her little lectures right now.

"And the others?" she cut in.

"Two North Korean table tennis players given asylum by the South and flown out while the Northerners were still complaining, a Syrian weightlifter officially unaccounted for but rumoured to be heading for the Land of the Free - "

"God help him," Harry said sarcastically. "Is that all?"

"No, sir," Chen answered. "There's the Belorussian, too."

Harry frowned. "The girl with the maracas, you mean?"

Ros heard Lucas sneeze, although he could have equally as well have been trying to throttle a guffaw. She stepped in hastily.

"Clubs, Harry. Rhythmic gymnastics."

"She's still holed up in the hotel she bolted to, still under guard," Chen added quickly. "And the Belorussians are still demanding her back."

Harry looked exasperated. "The last thing we need is a diplomatic incident with them. What's she claiming protection from?"

"A government stuck in a Soviet time-warp and run by a megalomaniac thug," Lucas answered. His amusement had muted into concern now. "They arrested her brother for demonstrating against Lukashenko two weeks ago and they'll probably have a reception committee out for her too. She's genuine, Harry. And she's right to be afraid. God knows what they'll do to her."

Harry's expression softened; if anyone in the room could assert that with unchallenged authority it was Lucas. "All right. Do we have anything we can use?"

There was a pause. Callum, Ros noticed, was getting all touchy-feely with his iPad again. She was flicking through her personal stock for a put-down that would penetrate his armour of self-absorption, when he looked up with a wide grin on his face.

"Yeah. Their KGB goon – "

"FSB," Lucas and Ros said in chorus. Sometimes Ros wondered if the ghosts of Spooks past didn't drift back to make a spectral contribution to these meetings. She could almost hear Connie James's derisive 'tut'.

"FSB, S.O.B …" Callum shrugged. "Anatoly Baranovich. He's the one been raising Cain, hasn't he?" Chen nodded. " We – ell, we could remind him of that fifteen year old prostitute he picked up a couple of months ago. Gather his boss is a bit of a prude – in public, at least. And she was under age. Doesn't look good. Socialist morals and all that crap."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Evidence?"

"Yep. It was their week for a bit of company. Section A had eyeball." Callum grinned lasciviously. "Lights, camera, action." He caught Ros's stare and added belatedly, "Sir."

Harry tapped his fingers on the tabletop. " Do it, Lucas. He backs down, we back off. And make sure the girl's safe." He doodled on his notepad for a moment while the silence stretched out and several high-pitched squeaks betrayed people shifting in their seats.

"All right, let's move on," he said abruptly. "Khalida. Have you seen or heard anything at all out of the ordinary in the last three days?"

_Yes, but not the way you mean. _Ros unconsciously touched the inhaler in her pocket. While Chen Liu had been attached to the officers monitoring the huge team from China, Khalida had spent the Olympics undercover as a Gamesmaker liaison to teams from Muslim countries. The organisers had been determined that even the most sensitive delegations would be made to feel welcome in London. Harry, who understood the word 'sensitive' rather differently from LOGOC, had blithely assured them that they would most _certainly_ be taken care of.

"No, Harry. Had I done so, I should have contacted Ros at once, as I was instructed." She glanced over to the Section Chief. "I made regular reports."

"I know that." There was irritation in Harry's voice, and Ros frowned. Next to her, Lucas had tensed too. "I'm talking about the last three days. Since the close of competition. _Think_, Khalida!"

A slight flush burnished Khalida's skin, but she shook her head. "No, Harry. Nothing, I assure you."

"Well, it seems you should have." Harry picked up the video remote and flicked it towards the screen. "Ruth!"

The lights dimmed as the analyst began to speak. The screen was showing the closing ceremony; the athletes, as was the custom, were mingling together informally in the centre of the field in no particular order, watching the dazzling display of fireworks.

"I went with Harry to the final Met briefing this morning. Special Branch drew our attention to this."

"To _what_ exactly?" Ros enquired dryly. "The Golden Rain?" as several volleys of the firework lit up the screen. She knew she sounded petty, but despite her casual comments to Lucas earlier, it rankled that Ruth had been given centre stage on this … whatever it was.

"Rosalind," Harry said, warningly.

Sullenly, Ros subsided. She felt Lucas's hand touch hers briefly under the table.

"The SB spotted what looked like an exchange being made between two of the athletes. You can see the teams had all mingled by this stage - " Ruth pressed the fast forward button and then zoomed in. "It's not that clear, but watch this man … here." She pointed at a bearded Asian in a green and white tracksuit. "That's a Pakistani team outfit. Now see this one … here, moving through the crowd towards him."

Ros leaned forward, peering at the screen; the random, swirling movements of the athletes and the continual flashes from cameras and fireworks made it difficult to focus.

"You see … here." Ruth froze the picture. "The blond passes him something ... just there – then drifts on. See it?"

Lucas pursed his lips dubiously. "They could have just been exchanging badges … flags … some kind of memento. Kind of thing athletes always do."

Ruth shook her head decisively. "They didn't speak. Even look at each other. Look." She ran the film back and played it again. "No contact at all except for the exchange. It's a classic brush-pass."

"Special Branch thinks it was a deliberate meet?" Ros asked. When Ruth nodded she added, "So who are they? Has anyone identified them?" Ruth looked uncertainly towards Harry, and Ros shifted uncomfortably. Her chest felt suddenly tight. All the earlier light-heartedness had drained from the room. This, she knew, was the _why_ behind Harry's '_maybe, maybe not._' "Well? Spit it out, Ruth! Or do we have to play Blind Man's sodding Buff with you all morning?"

"The Asian." It was Khalida, not Ruth, who replied. "Whoever he is, he is not a Pakistani athlete, Ros. They only sent twenty-one competitors, most of them in the hockey team. He is not one of them." Before Ros could speak, she added, "I am sure."

"Could he be a member of staff? Coach, trainer, something like that?" Ruth asked.

Chen Liu shook his head. "It's athletes only at the closing ceremony."

_Should be, _Ros thought savagely. G4S, the elephant in the corner of the room - had been in charge of the official participation at both ceremonies. First, they'd let a gatecrasher into the Indian delegation at the opening parade of teams. Now this – whatever it might be.

"Do we at least know the other one? The blond?" It was Lucas.

Everyone blinked as the lights came up. One by one, heads turned towards Harry.

"He's one of ours," he answered. "Member of the rowing team."

Ros's ribs were aching. She coughed and winced. "So?"

"So this," Harry Pearce said grimly, "is where things get interesting."

oOoOoOo

Please review if you have a minute! :)


	2. Chapter 2

_It goes without saying that Alexander Pemberton bears no resemblance to anyone living, dead, or in the Olympics._

CHAPTER TWO

Alex Pemberton, Ros thought. Of all the hundreds of British athletes at the Olympics, Alexander sodding Pemberton had to be the one involved in something that suggested that the city of Copenhagen needed to overhaul its sewage system, pronto.

She glanced at her empty wine glass, hesitated, and then refilled it._ Just for once, to hell with moderation and self-control. _She raised the glass in an ironic, silent 'sod you too' toast to Harry Pearce, the architect of her 48-hour house arrest, and idly watched the muted antics of _Great Moments of London 2012_ on her TV screen. The speed with which her own imagination was running ahead of her made Usain Bolt look positively pedestrian, and being cut off from the Grid and any information the team might be obtaining made her suppositions even wilder. She would have phoned Lucas for an update, but although Ros was rarely cowed by a superior's orders, she also didn't have a professional death wish. When Harry had held her back after the meeting he had been emphatic, totally inflexible – and proved once again just how much he could see without looking. She was to leave the Grid – '_right this minute, Rosalind' _– go home and sleep, preferably round the clock, and if she dared to attempt to contact anyone on the Grid, he would suspend her _and _them without hesitation. He, Ruth and Lucas would keep the world turning until she returned, which she would not do_ 'on pain of disciplinary measures, Ros', _until forty-eight hours were up and was that crystal clear, no arguments, good, then there's the door.

She had been waiting for the lift, burning with a mixture of rage, frustration and humiliation, when he had come briskly along the corridor. Ros ostentatiously turned her back, but then felt a hand gently squeezing her shoulder.

"And while you're at it, have a good long soak in the bath, a couple of glasses of wine, and pamper yourself. And if that pain gets any worse, call - "

"The doctor, I know," Ros had snapped despite herself.

" – call me. Day or night. _At once. _Nobody else will know."

It was his kindness more than his threats that had made Ros do as she was told. He'd been right, anyway – as usual. She'd crawled under the duvet and slept for twelve hours straight, waking only when the cramps and yowls from her neglected stomach became too intense to ignore. Even then she had stayed awake only long enough to cobble together and eat a bowl of pasta washed down with a cup of tea before blundering back to bed, bug-eyed and clumsy with sleep. Just _how_ clumsy had only become clear that morning when she had discovered the shattered remains of a plate, the kettle standing in a large pool of water and several squashed pasta shells glued to the floor tiles.

Still, she thought, at least the sleep and Harry's long soak in the bath had worked. Now her head felt as if it was where it _should_ be, on her shoulders, rather than floating about a foot above them in a pea-souper fog. The pain in her chest had gone, she could breathe without effort, and her brain was back to doing the kind of thing it did best; in this case, trying to work out what on earth Alex Pemberton might have been up to and whether it could be considered a security threat. She may have been put into purdah, but nobody had forbidden her to think.

She snatched up the TV remote as Eaton Dorney appeared on the screen, then muttered impatiently through the wittering 'experts' and a women's race until they finally showed the one in which Alex Pemberton and his team-mate had won a gold medal. She watched the rower intently as he gave a post-race interview. Massive shoulders, sun-tanned, mop of blond hair, radiant smile. Every woman's dream, she assumed. And he had the easy confidence that came with his background. Eton, Oxford blue, and everything an Olympic gold medal winner was meant to be.

And – the part that had caused eyes to roll, jaws to drop and hackles to rise on the Grid – he _also_ had a father with a knighthood, who had donated hundreds of thousands over the years to the party currently in office and was the Government's special advisor on energy policy.

Ros snarled at the screen and switched off. _So what the hell were you doing casually exchanging billets-doux with an unidentified_ _bloody Pakistani whose games may have had absolutely nothing to do with the Olympics?_

The potted athletes' biographies LOGOC had issued told her nothing she didn't already know, and Google provided nothing more salacious than a couple of _paparazzi_ shots of Pemberton emerging from a nightclub somewhere with his arm around a long-legged redhead. No doubt the others had found more by now. Ros thumped a cushion back into place in frustration. By the time she returned to the Grid in the morning she'd be playing catch-up with the rest of the team and probably having to submit to one of Ruth's kindly, _patient _briefings to boot. _Damn_ Harry Pearce and his paternalistic bloody fussing.

She jumped out of her skin when her mobile rang. _Lucas calling_. Her spirits soaring, Ros reached for it, and just as quickly, withdrew her hand. Callum could tap anything, from a mobile to the Mafia, and Harry had been adamant. Since what she and Lucas privately referred to as '_Boliviagate_', Lucas had not so much observed the rules as been Velcroed to them, and much as she yearned to speak to him, she wouldn't help him to drop himself in the proverbial in the process.

The phone chirruped itself to a standstill, but after a second it bleeped to signal an incoming text message. _It's OK, I've got permission. You can answer. H forgot that if you're not allowed contact with anyone he can't find out how you are. L _followed by a winking smiley with a protruding tongue.

Ros laughed despite herself, and rang him back.

"How are you?" were his first words. Ros rolled her eyes.

"I'm fine. I've been sleeping for England. What about you?"

She heard the smile in his voice. "Once you're back I get _my _forty-eight hours. But I'll be on standby. According to Harry I'll need to get caught in a proper grown-up explosion before I get the full five-star treatment. Are you _sure_ you feel better?"

Ros bit back a lacerating response and instead started making clucking noises. Lucas laughed.

"All right, all right, I get the point. Want to know what's been happening?"

_No, no, no. Not in the least interested - you idiot. _"Do _you_ want to make a return trip to La Paz?" she enquired sweetly.

He obviously didn't, and Ros listened to the latest developments. It didn't sound as if they'd made much progress. Callum had been trying, with limited success, to enhance the quality of the film Special Branch had provided. His irritated description of the SB photographer as 'a cross-eyed coot with the DTs' probably wasn't far off the mark, Lucas said wryly, and so far, face recognition hadn't brought them any closer to being able to identify their potential wolf in Pakistani clothing. Ruth had been helping Khalida to trawl through the Watchlist; the junior officer, he added, was upset at what she felt was an unvoiced, but palpable suspicion that she might have deliberately turned a blind eye to something that she should have reported.

Ros groaned inwardly. Khalida could be touchy if she thought her loyalty was being called into question. In a way, Ros didn't blame her for that. She, better than anyone, knew how uncomfortable it was to feel that your fellow officers distrusted you. Nothing about Khalida's work had ever suggested that she was less than totally reliable. She had cleared the standard vetting procedures _and_ gone through the additional security checks that all Muslim applicants to MI-5 had to undergo, but an understandable wariness among her colleagues wasn't something you could dissipate just with a tick in the right administrative boxes.

"I would never have given her the assignment if I didn't trust her completely," she said sharply. "You should have told her that."

"Ruth already did," Lucas answered.

_Oh, __Ruth__ did? _Ros refrained from reminding him that in her absence, _he,_ not Ruth, was the senior officer. Instead, she asked: "And?"

"Nothing yet," Lucas said, ruefully. "But you know how many faces are on that bloody thing. Besides, he doesn't even have to be Pakistani, does he?"

"No." That thought had come to Ros, too. "Anything been done about that?"

"Yeah. Harry's sent Chen Liu to have a word with those blockheads in G4S – and the guy who was in charge of the Gamesmakers. There were a couple of petty thefts from the Olympic Village; one of them reached the press .. some Aussie, was it, had a medal stolen or something? Khalida says the Pakistanis never mentioned anything to her, but Chen's going to check up if anything unusual happened. Anyone seen hanging around their accommodation, any break-ins, that sort of thing."

Ros thought for a moment. There was an obvious gap in everything he was telling her, and she had a nasty feeling that she knew exactly why it was there.

"What about Pemberton? Who's been checking up on him?"

"Me. Once I got back." There was a pause, in which Ros could sense him taking a deep breath and bracing himself. "But not much."

"Why not?" she shot back immediately, although she could have answered the question herself.

"Because," reluctance was dragging at Lucas's voice like lactic acid at a runner's legs, "well, because - "

Ros's patience snapped. "Because we've been told to go softly-softly. Because of Sir Roger bloody Pemberton."

She took his mumble as confirmation and thumped another cushion. "Well, what about his better half? Lucas," as he started to contradict her, "I _know_ he's not married, for God's sake. I meant his partner. In the bloody boat, canoe, bath-tub, whatever the hell it was."

"Yeah." She could picture him holding the phone progressively further from his ear as her voice and his edginess rose in tandem. "Yeah, he – er – he's still a student. Engineering, Bath University."

"So has anyone been sent down there to talk to him, at least?"

"Not yet. Ros – _Ros! – _wait. Look, because of who Pemberton is – because of who his _father_ is, we can't go charging in there, especially not until we know this isn't just something totally innocent. Harry said as much."

Ros snorted. _Totally innocent_. "How many totally innocent people do _you_ know who know how to do a brush-pass handover properly?"

"All right. Point taken. Truce?" Lucas pleaded. "I know you've got your second wind, but I'm still on coffee and rubber legs."

"Sorry," Ros said awkwardly, momentarily ashamed of herself for riding him so hard. "Go on."

"Harry's not happy either. He doesn't like the Old Boy Network any more than you or I do. You might be able to do more tomorrow."

"What's so special about tomorrow?" Ros asked.

This time, the hesitation was longer, which meant, Ros knew, that Lucas was anticipating her reaction to what he was about to say.

"Come on, Lucas. Whatever it is, I'll be as sweet as pie, I promise."

She thought she heard a disbelieving '_humph_' down the line before he said. "You and Harry have an appointment with the Home Secretary at nine-thirty. He wants to thank you both for a good job done." He cleared his throat. "So he says."

_Or warn us off Alex Pemberton._ Ros clenched her hand into an angry fist_. _"How much did he give to the party war chest last election?"

"Pemberton? Can't remember exactly, but it had a good few noughts on it." The last few words were swallowed up in a prolonged yawn. "God, sorry."

He sounded so weary that Ros suddenly felt guilty for keeping him on the phone. But there was something still niggling at her. "What did you mean when you 'got back', Lucas? Where from?"

"Sorry? Oh, I went to that Belorussian gymnast, what's her name … Akayeva. You know, the one with the maracas."

_Oh, for crying out loud, Lucas. _Ros leant her head back into the cushions and counted to ten to avoid losing her temper. She knew Lucas was completely genuine in his concern for Lidia Akayeva, but he still got too emotionally involved in things, especially if the Russians were in the picture – or a pretty woman, a voice whispered tauntingly inside her head. Ros firmly closed one of her airtight emotional doors on it. Lucas's occasional susceptibility wasn't the issue here; the fact that his professional priorities were getting skewed _was_.

"Lucas," she said at last, keeping her voice even, "if she's safe where she is for the moment, then we need to keep things in perspective and concentrate on this Pemberton business. I really don't think - "

"No, neither did I." She blinked; Lucas wasn't usually given to interrupting her. "But Harry insisted."

_Yeah, he would_. He knew what it would mean to Lucas, and he still felt partly responsible for those eight years stolen from the younger man's life.

"He wanted me to talk to her, find out more about why she was so afraid of going back. Sound her out, make sure she's genuine. After all, if we're going to give her asylum, they'll need reasons." He yawned again. "Harry's got my report."

"All right." Ros made a mental note to urge Harry to shift responsibility for Ms Akayeva and her maracas over to someone else – Special Branch, the International Olympic Committee – maybe the Home Office. Yes, that was it. Turn her case over to that pompous little gnome in the Home Office in the morning. That should tip him off his bloody ministerial toadstool. "Thanks for bringing me up to speed." She hesitated. Her 'relationship' with Lucas – if that's what it was – was the most informal of arrangements. They would often go for a week or more without seeing each other outside the Grid, and most of their nights together were unplanned and fitted in around work. Lucas seemed to know when she wanted to be with him before she did; in fact, Ros had started to wonder if she gave off some sign she didn't know about – twitching ears or something. His intuition meant that she rarely took the initiative, but it had been a lonely and frustrating 48 hours. "I don't suppose you're allowed to come round?"

"Nope. Besides, I don't think I could unless someone carried me," Lucas sounded embarrassed as well as exhausted. "Forgive me, Boss?"

"Not part of the job description," Ros said automatically, and instantly blocked the memories that phrase always brought back. "'Night then. Get some rest."

"'Night. Take care." Ros remembered Lucas once telling her he could sleep on a washing line. He sounded as if he was a dab hand at doing it on a phone line, too. The Olympic Feel Good Factor had a lot to answer for.

She looked at her watch and got up. Nine hours and she'd be back where she belonged - in charge. She tucked her laptop under her arm, switched off the lights and made her own way to bed.

oOoOoOo

"Harry!" The Home Secretary's greeting was effusive. "Sit down, sit down. Good to see you. And you, Miss – er – Mears."

"Myers," Ros said through gritted teeth, for the umpteenth time. One of these days she was going to add '_you know, like the man in HMP Wormwood Scrubs, the one who tried to overthrow the Government' – that _would give the little pipsqueak something to remember.

"Myers, of course." He beamed. "Tea?"

Harry lifted the pot with his most insincerely charming smile. "Shall I be mother, Home Secretary?"

Ros just managed to turn a snort of laughter into a coughing fit.

"Sorry, Home Secretary. My chest – you know." She tapped it helpfully; surely she was entitled to get _some_ mileage out of almost being sent to an early departmental meeting with her Maker while trying to save his predecessor.

"Yes, yes indeed." William Towers tutted in concern as he settled himself back behind his desk. Harry handed Ros her tea, gave her a very stern look to go with it and took a seat alongside her. Towers leaned forward across the desk with his hands clasped in what Harry always derisively referred to as the 'politician's sincerity stance'.

"Now, the PM asked me to convey to you both his enormous gratitude and admiration for the excellent job the security services and your Section in particular have done in keeping the Olympics safe." He turned on the smile again. "He's quite delighted – as are we all, of course. Jolly good performance all round. Massive effort of course, we all recognise that, PM realises you've all worked damned hard, and it certainly paid off. London came through with flying colours. Strictly between us, of course, had a few doubts in the run-up." For a moment the mask of joviality slipped. "Not everyone in favour, you know … last year's riots, all this damned Euro nonsense. And the terrorist threat, obviously … never free of that. Huge target … some lunatic sure to take a pot-shot." He caught Ros and Harry exchanging glances and swiftly recalled himself. "Still, all's well that ends well, eh? And a great deal of it thanks to you and your staff, Harry. Jolly well done."

"Thank you, Home Secretary." Harry sipped his tea, and then said: "You'll recall I mentioned last year my intention to retire after the Games?"

Surprise, then alarm, skittered across Towers's face.

"Yes, well … yes, I remember, of course. After your chap North got himself on a bit of a sticky wicket. Difficult. But surely, Harry, hardly the right moment now."

"On the contrary, Home Secretary," Harry said smoothly. "I've always had a yen to go out in a blaze of glory, and the fireworks at the closing ceremony created rather a nice one, wouldn't you say?"

"Hmph." The politician fixed his most authoritative gaze on him and drew himself up straight. The effect was slightly spoilt, for Ros at least, by the fact that her position enabled her to see the footrest under his desk that he used to bridge the gap between his feet and the floor. "At least … not immediately?"

"I'd like to serve out the year, sir. To give the Service time to choose a replacement." He glanced at Ros. "I realise I don't have the final word on the matter, the Wise Men will make the decision – and your input will be crucial, of course," he added, rather late, Ros thought. "But I shall be strongly recommending that Miss Myers is appointed to the position."

Ros kept her face expressionless, using a skill that William Towers, despite thirty years in politics, didn't quite seem to have mastered. His eyes slid to her in what looked like mild alarm, and his blink rate increased exponentially.

"Yes, yes, quite. Perfectly understandable. Experienced … yes, certainly a – a strong candidate." He gave her a smile that put Ros in mind of a cornered mouse trying to placate a hungry Siamese. "The feminine touch, too – gender equality, PM's very strong on that."

Ros caught Harry's smirk out of the corner of her eye, but when Towers looked at him, Harry smiled back pleasantly with the consummate skill born of long years playing puppet master with his political overlords.

"I'm glad we agree, Home Secretary."

William Towers looked thoroughly surprised to learn it, but he took the ancient political emergency exit from a tricky discussion and changed the subject.

"Well, more tea?" He busied himself re-filling their cups. "I have a meeting at the DOI at - " he glanced at his watch - "at ten forty-five. Energy policy. Damned situation in the Middle East doesn't get any more stable; need to be sure we've got alternative sources of fuel on tap, what with winter round the corner." He resumed his seat. "So, if you could just give me a quick final post-Olympics briefing? Sure you've done your usual efficient job in tying up all the loose ends, dotting and crossing, etc."

Harry glanced at Ros. "Indeed. We do just have a couple of little things I ought to mention."

Ros listened in silence, watching the politician as Harry crisply reported the departure of the various dignitaries, teams and assorted hangers-on, then described how the armed forces were swiftly withdrawing themselves and their plethora of high tech wizardry back to barracks. She could see Towers visibly relaxing as each potential piece of political blue touch paper was smoothly rendered harmless, and admired Harry's ability to reassure and soothe. With luck, Towers would be so used to good news by the time Harry reached the bad news that he wouldn't even recognise it as such. His frown when Harry mentioned Lidia Akayeva, however, suggested that his little grey cells were still irritatingly alert.

"We hardly want a ruckus with the Russians right now," he said testily. "We may need to go barrel in hand to them if our oil supplies fall short."

"Byelorussians, Home Secretary," Ros said quietly. "Not exactly our allies, and they don't have quite the same … _respectful_ attitude towards human rights and the rule of law as HM Government does." She had learnt from Harry over the years that there was no such thing as laying it on too thick with a politician.

Towers sighed. "Do we have any leverage we can use?"

She nodded. "We do, Home Secretary."

"_Legal _leverage?" his gaze speared them both.

"Absolutely. Very discreet, and very effective," Harry answered without the slightest change in inflection.

There was a moment's silence, punctuated by Towers's tapping of a pen on the desk.

"Very well," he said at last. "If you're absolutely certain this girl isn't a plant or some kind of … smoke-screen for some distasteful little – well, you would know better than I – then make the arrangements and I'll speak to the PM about granting asylum. Was there anything else?" He checked his watch again.

"Thank you. I'll put Lucas North on it. He's fluent in the language and he understands the culture and background." Harry cleared his throat. "Just one more small thing."

He played down the incident at the closing ceremony, making it sound as if he believed that Special Branch was over-reacting to the whole thing. _But still, Home Secretary, just to be on the safe side, we'll check both of them out, confirm that it was just an exchange of addresses or Olympic souvenirs, that kind of thing. _

"You don't know who this Pakistani bod was?" Towers asked.

"Not yet," Harry admitted. "We're working on it."

Ros waited for it. "And our chap?"

"A rower. Gold medallist. Alexander Pemberton."

In the silence, a ringing phone was audible in the outer office.

"Sir Roger Pemberton's son?" When Harry nodded, Towers's face darkened. "Now see here, Harry, you can't go round throwing accusations like that about."

"No-one is accusing - " Harry began, but Towers cut him off as he shoved his chair back and got to his feet.

"Good God, man, do you _know_ how important his father is to this Government? He's the architect of our energy policy! Damn it all, I'm about to attend a briefing from the man about how we make sure we get enough oil this winter to keep the nation's cars running and the power stations working! If you start probing possible terrorist activity and suggesting his son may be involved … good grief, if the _tabloids _were to get hold of even a _whisper_ of such a thing!" He dabbed his face with a handkerchief.

"Home Secretary," Harry said firmly, "I assure you that my section is perfectly capable of investigating _anyone, _however prominent, with subtlety and discretion." _And you can take that hint and run with it,_ Ros thought. "I do understand the situation, but it would be the height of irresponsibility - "

William Towers drew himself up to his full five feet four inches.

"Harry, may I remind you that it is the government that decides where responsibility begins and ends, _not _the Security Services. It is our responsibility to maintain political and economic stability, and suggesting that the son of a man as important and influential in both areas as Sir Roger Pemberton may be involved in … in _terrorism _– would be a mortal blow to both. Now I -" he stopped in irritation as his telephone rang.

"Towers. Jennifer, I expressly _told_ you I was not to be disturbed. Exactly how many – who? Cancelled? But it was – he can't? Well what _reason_ did he give? For God's sake, this has been arranged for weeks! He said what?" He stopped speaking and both Harry and Ros, who had risen to her feet, heard his secretary's voice speaking rapidly into the phone. Towers's face had paled.

"I see." He looked up at Harry. "Yes, I see. Well yes, of course, no choice really. Yes, do; call the PS in each ministry. We'll reschedule, of course. Give me ten minutes and then get Downing Street on the line for me."

He put the phone down slowly, stared at the surface of his polished mahogany desk for a long moment, and finally met the eyes of the two intelligence officers.

"You may have a point," he said heavily. "Sir Roger Pemberton's PA has just contacted my secretary to cancel this morning's meeting with the Energy Advisor. It seems that Alexander Pemberton has disappeared."

oOoOoOo

_Please review! Thank you!_


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"Come on, Rosalind, don't dawdle!" Harry barked the command over his shoulder with such irritation that Ros didn't dare allow herself more than a brief, silent glare at his back in response. He had stormed through the polished marble corridors of the Home Office as if he was on an army drill square marching in double-quick time. She squirted her inhaler into her mouth to discourage the wheeze she could feel starting, and caught him up just as they emerged into the street.

"So what - "she snatched another breath. "What do we do now?"

Harry snorted. "Right now, I - " He stopped abruptly, and his voice became apologetic. "Right now, I slow down to a reasonable pace, for a start." He seized her wrist as Ros would have carried on. "Get your breath back."

"Harry, I'm fine." Her mobile interrupted the assertion, on which Ros sometimes thought she should have taken out a patent. "Myers. Yes, Ruth," and she moved back into the portico of the building as Harry gestured towards the loudspeaker button. Both bent their heads close over the phone as they strained to hear the analyst's voice over the roar of traffic, and it occurred to Ros that if Ruth didn't keep this short, someone from the ever-present police contingent around the building would likely arrest the pair of them for anything from terrorist activity to lewd behaviour in public.

The line was breaking up, but on the third attempt they both made out her words. _We think we may have a possible ID – well, a partial one, perhaps – on the man to whom Pemberton made the pass._

"Good work." Ros almost had to bawl the words for Ruth to hear them. Harry made a 'snipping' gesture with his fingers across his tie. _Cut it short._ They could hardly discuss national security and a potential terrorist threat huddled in a side doorway to the Home Office. "We're on our way." When Harry strode out to look for a taxi, Ros deliberately started walking again. He joined her, his face still like thunder, and she smiled wryly. "Might be safer if you walked your blood pressure back to normal before we get to the Grid, Harry." He muttered something inaudible. "At least it sounds as if they've had a breakthrough."

"It's only a breakthrough if those self-important, strutting little peacocks back there - " the dismissive wave of his arm encompassed the whole of Whitehall as they crossed Parliament Square, " – actually allow us to use it. And you heard what they said." He guided her around the anti-war protest encampment littering the pavement opposite the Palace of Westminster, and snorted in contempt at its damp inhabitants.

"Yeah, but I thought you'd just - " Ros began.

"You thought right," Harry interrupted. After a moment, he veered off Abingdon Street to walk through Victoria Tower Gardens. "Let's see what Ruth has to say first. Then we'll have a better idea of what we're facing."

Ros noted with a twinge of apprehension that he was no longer suggesting, as he had in William Towers's office, that there was nothing _to_ face. Ruth's information had been its usual cautiously-qualified self, prettily edged with _'maybe'_s and _'possible's_, but if they _had_ matched the face of Mr A. N. Onymous of Islamabad, it could only be because he had at some time come to the attention of MI-5. The bastard was unlikely to have done so because he was national Pakistani hockey champion.

She realised suddenly that Harry had stopped alongside the Burghers of Calais monument that stood in the middle of the park.

"D'you know the story?" he asked.

Ros shrugged; this was hardly the moment for a chat about mediaeval history. "Yeah, vaguely … some noble self-sacrifice, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Edward III had been besieging Calais. Half the population had already starved. He said he'd spare the city if its leading citizens surrendered – came out almost naked, with a noose round their necks. Total humiliation. Debase them as much as he could. Use the fear of even more dire consequences to get his way." He looked back along the riverbank where the proud and graceful spires of Parliament were swiftly being wreathed in early-autumn mist from the river. "He'd have made a good terrorist. I have a very nasty feeling about this, Ros. You'd never be able to explain it to _them_ - " he jerked his head back in the direction they'd come from. "Too busy making hay. The Jubilee, then the Olympics … all peaceful, all successful. Not a riot in sight, stock market rising, Union flags fluttering in the breeze like Wordsworth's daffodils." There was weariness in his voice. "Like a bunch of basking sea lions, all oil and blubber, too lulled by the sun to notice the bloody killer whale lurking in the waves." They resumed walking. "It's the ideal time for a spectacular, while everyone's spirits are high, the polls are up - "

"And their guards are down," Ros finished for him. As they crossed the bottom of Lambeth Bridge, she added: "And if Pemberton _is_ involved in something …"

"Quite," Harry said sourly. " These are no amateurs. Couldn't have chosen a better moment. Here's the entire country still wrapped in a fluffy warm blanket of patriotic complacency, and up pop you and I like a couple of little Dementors bringing the threat of doom and destruction. Who wants to hear that? _Vade retro, Satanas._" He shoved open one of the massive doors to Thames House.

Some imp of mischief in Ros wanted to tell him that it was '_Avada Kedavra'_ he needed, but she refrained. There was a note of helplessness, almost like resignation, in Harry's voice that unsettled her far more than his earlier fury.

"Look, for once Special Branch has been a help rather than a hindrance. We've got a head start and a good team." The words embarrassed her; while it was part of her job to keep up the morale of her officers, she wasn't used to applying the tactic to Harry. Both of them flashed their ID cards at the officers – armed now, a sign of the times, Ros thought – as they entered the building. "And Ruth's probably worked out our man's family tree going back three generations by now. In Ancient Greek."

That brought a wry smile. When the pods popped them out onto the Grid like two freshly ground peppercorns, Ros expected to see Ruth waiting for them, tail wagging, panting with eagerness to recount every detail of what she had discovered. Instead, it was Callum Reed whose voice said: "Ros."

"Yeah." Ros spun round. There was no sign of Ruth, Khalida, Chen Liu or Lucas. "Where is everyone?" Even as she spoke she remembered that Lucas would be fast asleep at home, and swore silently. God knows she had no particular compunction about flying in the face of the politicians' orders, but she'd have appreciated a reliable co-pilot rather than three juniors plus Romeo and bloody Juliet.

"In the meeting room." As Harry and Ros followed him, he added: "You're not going to like this, Harry."

"Let me be the judge of that." Harry threw the doors open with a thud that caused three heads to snap upward simultaneously. Ruth looked relieved, Chen startled, and Khalida, for a second, unmistakably anxious. "Sit down," he ordered. His habitual crisp decisiveness, Ros noted with relief as everyone scrabbled for a seat, was back in his voice. "Ruth, you said you have an ID?"

"Yes. Yes, we _think_ so, Harry. But there's a complication." She gulped as Harry's expression darkened menacingly at the word.

"Explain."

Callum picked up the remote and brought the picture of the Pakistani up on screen. Ros looked at the blurred, fuzzy-edged quality and wondered angrily how on earth anyone could get a reliable ID from it.

"Khalida and I went through the Watchlist with the face recognition software," the analyst said. It didn't throw anything up the first time, or the second, so we started going back, you know, through the archive listings, the names that have been taken off the Watchlist over the last five years. For whatever reason – death, arrest, ruled no longer a security risk etc -"

"Ruth," Ros interrupted, aware that to her right, the traditional tapping of Harry's fountain pen was reaching danger speed. "We all know _why _targets are taken off the Watchlist. Get to the point."

Ruth's nostrils flared in annoyance, but before either of them could say anything more, Callum cut in.

"I've been trying to enhance this bloody shot for days, Harry." The picture on the screen jerked into an unfocussed blur, then dissolved and disappeared. "That SB prat could have done better with a box Brownie. Hang on … here." The picture returned, but this time Ros could see that it was quite a bit sharper. She leaned forward and scrutinised the face of the heavily bearded Pakistani. There was something familiar about him, surely … and there shouldn't be. She felt her muscles tense as Ruth took over again.

"We ran the recognition software again using the better picture, Harry. I mean, even that's not perfect, because you can only see part of his face, and in order for there to be a full -"

"Ruth!" Ros snapped. "_Who is he_?"

"If you'd change the habit of a lifetime and allow me to finish a sentence," Ruth retorted, but her indignation was truncated by Harry's hand smacking against the tabletop.

"That's enough! _Both _of you! Who is this man?"

Ruth was scarlet, although Ros couldn't tell whether it was from anger with her, or shock at being rebuked in public by Harry. Khalida's quiet voice spoke up.

"We think it's Asif Iqbal Mahmood, Harry."

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Ros hissed just as Harry rapped: "What do you mean, _think_? What's the degree of probability?"

"Eighty percent-ish," Callum answered.

"Why so low?" Harry demanded. "Can't you enhance the shot further?"

Callum glanced at Ros. "It's not only the picture quality. The main problem is that although there's a strong resemblance, there's also enough difference to cause an element of doubt, and it's not just the facial hair. We've looked at older pictures of him on file and I've run comparisons. We think he's altered his appearance. Possibly as the result of an injury … more likely from plastic surgery."

Silently, her eyes lowered, Khalida slid several photographs along the table. As Harry snatched them up, Ros finally pulled herself together enough to speak.

"Asif Iqbal Mahmood has been red-flagged since he skipped this country … five years ago? Are you telling me that with the Border Agency working round the clock, our people backing them up, Six on maximum alert across the Middle East and Asia, _plus_ Customs and Immigration carrying out the most stringent checks on every incoming mode of sodding transport, he could still have got under our radar, back into the UK and into the Olympic Stadium? _How?_"

An uneasy silence answered her question. Ros muttered '_shit_', raked a hand through her hair and glanced at Harry just as a mobile phone erupted into a frenzied electronic rendering of 'Staying Alive'. Harry shot a look at Chen Liu that suggested he wouldn't be doing so for very much longer, and the young Chinese, with a muttered 'sorry, sorry', slid from his chair and trotted down to the far end of the room where he stood in a corner, holding a whispered conversation behind his hand. Harry flicked through the photographs, and passed them to Ros just as Chen ended the call. He fixed the young man with a glare.

"Are you going to enlighten us on the nature of your conversation, or am I to assume you were setting up a date for the evening?"

"No, sir. It was the Border Agency people at Heathrow." Chen Liu glanced nervously from him to Ros. "The G4S people told me they had no reports of anything out of the ordinary involving the Pakistani team. The Gamesmaker chief confirmed that; they all left on schedule the day after the Games ended – all thirty of them, he said." He took off his glasses and wiped them on the hem of his sweater.

"So?" Harry pressed.

"Well, I checked with emigration. Just a hunch." Chen gulped. "Only twenty-nine of them took the PIA flight. And the airline confirms only twenty-nine were ever booked out."

That just about clinched it, Ros thought. Unwittingly or not, the Pakistanis had been used. That man almost certainly _was _Asif Iqbal Mahmood. _And he's still here. _Ros stared at the photographs in her hand. Her fingers were leaving dabs of perspiration on the images. She nodded abruptly to Chen in approval, and then, together with everyone else, turned towards Harry Pearce. He was concentrating intently on the fountain pen that she recalled the team giving him for his birthday years ago. _So_ many years ago, she remembered with a jolt, that of all the people around the table now, only she would have been there. Even Ruth – _thanks to you – _had been playing dead in a classified bolt-hole abroad at the time.

"Right." She jumped as Harry pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and started prowling round the conference table. Callum was grinning at her reaction, and Ros shot him the dirtiest look she could summon up. He didn't turn a hair, and she felt a sudden stab of nostalgia for the diffident courtesy of Malcolm Wynne-Jones. "I don't believe in coincidences, so for the time being we work on the assumption that the man in that photograph," Harry stabbed his pen towards the screen, "_is_ Asif Iqbal Mahmood. And that Alexander Pemberton is somehow involved with him. That involvement may be voluntary, or he may be acting under duress. It may also, of course, be innocent, but that's unlikely. Whatever Mahmood may be in this country for, it isn't out of an interest in sport, Olympic or otherwise, so we need to find him as quickly as possible. If he is working to a timetable we have no way of knowing how far into it he is. Khalida. Do you have any assets that may be worth pumping? "

"Yes, Harry. Several, I think." the young woman answered.

"Then you make contact. If you can, _don't_ break your normal pattern of meeting with them, but if you have to, take maximum precautions. You know what we need - any sign of changes in behaviour patterns, rumours, anyone suddenly breaking contact with family or friends ... and _don't_ mention Mahmood's name under any circumstances. Understood?"

She nodded. Just as Harry resumed, Chen Liu raised a tentative hand, and Ros winced. Chen was showing every sign of becoming a very good officer, but if there had been a course on learning to read Harry Pearce's face, she would have sent him on it.

"Harry, sorry, but wouldn't it be easier to question Pemberton first? We can't just ask Mahmood to drop in for a cup of tea, and Pemberton's a lot simpler to get our hands on. I mean, if it all turns out to be innocent, he -"

"It won't be. Mahmood lost all contact with innocence many years ago." Khalida didn't raise her voice, but it vibrated with loathing.

"And_ we_ may have lost contact with Pemberton." Harry _did_ raise his voice, substantially, and everyone hastily fell silent as he returned to pacing along the walls. Ros watched the changing expressions around the table as he told them of Alexander Pemberton's apparent vanishing act and explained the 'softly softly' strictures placed by William Towers and the Prime Minister's Office that morning on any investigation they might undertake. She heard Ruth mutter something that almost made her smile despite the circumstances. It suggested that not only _would_ butter melt in the analyst's mouth but that this morning, it might well turn rancid too.

"So what are we supposed to do, then?" Callum demanded. "Wait till monkey walkee through the front bloody door and handee himself in?" Ros noted with satisfaction that his chair slid sharply backwards as Harry span round and leaned over him.

"_You_ are going to take those photographs and the enhanced SB shot downstairs, and get the boffins to work up a close an approximation as they can get to what Mahmood might look like now in a variety of guises - bearded, clean-shaven, hair dyed, bald, with glasses and without. Then I want you and Chen to start checking everyone we currently have flagged 'maximum risk' on the Watchlist. Contact the police units who've been monitoring them during the Games, private security firms where they're involved, for anything – the _slightest_ irregularity. If they've let any one of these bastards out of their sight for longer than it takes them to unzip their flies, I want to know. When you've done that, move on to phone taps, filter them, and pass the recordings to Ruth. Clear?"

Chen said eagerly: "Yes, sir". Callum, his head already down over his iPad, gestured an insolently casual thumbs-up. Fortunately for him, Harry had already swept on, and didn't notice. "Ruth, you go through them - all of them. Analyse every single thing we've picked up in the last month for unusual references, anything that sounds like coded language, you know the drill."

Ruth nodded. That was all in a day's work for her, and Ros knew that if the phone taps _were _concealing anything, Ruth would ferret it out. She also knew what was coming next. Although Harry had neatly avoided the real thrust of Callum's impudent question, the likelihood of him handling the delicate matter of Alexander Pemberton with the '_kid gloves, Harry_' upon which William Towers had insisted was on the non-existent side of small. She wasn't surprised by his next words.

"All right, let's move. Ros, give me ten minutes, then come to my office."

He strode out, and the others followed, Ruth scurrying at his side, and the younger three chattering animatedly together. In the sudden silence, Ros checked her mobile. Exhausted or not, Lucas was still a poor and restless sleeper, and she half-hoped to see a message or a missed call. The screen was blank. She shoved the phone back into her pocket, irritated with herself for a twinge of disappointment. It wasn't as if she _needed_ him here, for God's sake; she was perfectly capable of running an operation without him holding her hand.

_You might not need him, but you want him, you bloody liar._ She looked around the empty conference room and shivered. One of the blessings, albeit a dubious one, of this job was that you were usually too busy trying to prevent tomorrow's Armageddon to dwell on the consequences of yesterday's. Yet sometimes she would hear a turn of phrase, or have a rare quiet moment like this and sense the presence of people who – unlike her – hadn't survived them. Ruth, who had known most of her ghosts, would have empathised, which was precisely why Ros would never let her know about them. She had never mentioned them to Lucas either, but Lucas had his own, and she had never needed to. A look and a rueful smile had told her that he understood, and _his_ presence somehow made theirs less painful.

_Well, he's not here._ _So deal with it, Ros._ She snapped the meeting room doors closed on Adam's laughter, Jo's wide eyes and Zaf Younis's flirtatious grin, and headed swiftly to Harry's office.

He was just finishing a phone call when she entered, and pointed to the coffee pot. Ros poured both of them a mug, sat down and looked at him enquiringly when he hung up.

"I've been calling in a few favours." Harry idly rocked his swivel chair from side to side and a distinctly smug smile creased his features. "William Frederick Towers MP isn't the only one with friends in high places. Remember that, Ros, when you're behind this desk. Sometimes even_ your_ charm won't be enough."

Ros wanted to tell him that if they didn't manage to defuse whatever little bomb – virtual or actual – was ticking away out there, there might not be a desk for either of them to get behind. Instead, she managed a taut smile and tilted her head to indicate that perhaps he wouldn't mind getting down to brass tacks.

"I've spoken to the DG, and he's been in touch with the Met," Harry said. "Since it's only been four days since anyone last heard from young Mr Pemberton and he's a full-grown adult, the Met won't instigate enquiries yet – not unless there are grounds for suspecting foul play. For the moment there aren't, and it isn't a crime in the UK to vanish if you feel like it. As the police pointed out to Sir Roger, his son could simply have decided to go off somewhere for a bit of peace and quiet after all the hoo-ha of the Olympics."

"Strange that he contacted the police, then," Ros observed.

"Not," Harry answered, "if he knew – or suspected – something that we, as yet, don't."

"But surely he - " Ros began, and then stopped, and hurriedly broke eye contact. She, of _all_ people, should know that holding a position of influence in the Establishment didn't preclude the possibility of being involved in criminal activity – even the kind that was Section D's daily bread.

"Which means that we have a window," Harry said, ignoring her embarrassment with a discretion that brought a lump of gratitude to her throat. "And we need to use it. It seems young Alex lives in a cottage on the outskirts of Windsor conveniently near his old _alma mater_. So I want you heading there tonight – well, more like in the early hours of this morning - for a thoroughly good snoop around - always bearing in mind that he could _re -_appear at any minute. Your covert-entry techniques up to scratch?" When Ros nodded, he added: "See Callum before you go anyway; he's bound to have a few useful gadgets."

"And Sir Roger?" Ros asked.

Harry pulled a face. "He's either in it up to his eyeballs or he's as innocent as a new-born babe. He's your next task after you've cased the lad's place. In the meantime, I'll get Khalida or Ruth to pull up everything we've got on him."

Ros nodded. Sir Roger Pemberton's prominence meant that MI-5 was bound to have a file on the man; they had held one on her own father, and she had never quite got over her sense of shame at what it had contained.

Harry drained his coffee and asked briskly: "Anything else you need?"

_Yes._ But she couldn't bring herself to say it. He would either assume that she was nervous about doing the job alone, or, worse, guess what she was still trying to deny to herself - that Lucas North was more to her than just a fellow-officer. She heard herself say no.

"Right, well I have. I don't want you doing this alone. So the next thing you do is wake up Sleeping Beauty in Clapham, brief him and take him with you. And no objections!" He held up his hand to pre-empt the one Ros had no intention of making. "An _order. _Understood?"

Ros could have protested in order to keep up appearances, but Harry would know it was pretence. And _she_ would know that he did.

_You're starting to sound like Sir Humphrey bloody Appleby, Myers. _She got up.

"Understood, Harry."

Harry smiled. "I presume you're _not_ still keeping handguns secreted in your chimney at home?" She shook her head. "Then pick one up. And stay in touch. Now get moving."

Ros hurried down to the garage, and gunned her car up the ramp into Thorney Street, narrowly avoiding a blue Volvo with French plates performing a particularly slow and inept three-point turn. _Cretin. _Her adrenaline was beginning to pump, as it always did when she went into the field. She swung the vehicle round the Frenchman, returned his indignant honk with interest, and turned left for Lambeth Bridge and Lucas.

oOoOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading! Please review! _


	4. Chapter 4

_Just a note for those who may wonder – there really __is_ _an Evershed Sports Ground!_

_CHAPTER FOUR_

Ros took a long loop through South London in order to stop off at her own flat and collect a change of clothes; breaking into Alex Pemberton's home in a suit and high heels wasn't on. She stuffed a dark tracksuit, a ski bonnet and an old pair of black moccasins into a bag and tossed it onto the back seat. If she arrived unexpectedly on Lucas's doorstep dressed from head to foot in black, he was likely to greet her with an arm round her throat rather than her waist – especially if he'd just been woken up. Her attempts to alert him by phone to her arrival had been fruitless.

She couldn't see any signs of life in the top floor flat he occupied in a side street just off Clapham Common. Muttering under her breath – at least until she started to run out of it - Ros made the endless climb up four long flights of stairs. Lucas always said that the roof terrace overlooking the common compensated for the climb, but then Lucas, Ros thought grimly, her hand clutched around the inhaler she was determined not to need, had two good lungs.

She alternated ringing on the phone and knocking on the door until a series of scrapes and thuds announced a presence behind it. Aware of being scrutinised through the _judas_, Ros gave it a sarcastic smile, waved, and waited until a half-dressed, unshaven Lucas peered out.

"Ros!" He scratched his dishevelled hair with one hand and rubbed at his bloodshot eyes with the other.

"The very same." Ros raised an eyebrow. "May I?"

"Yeah … yeah. Sure." He stepped back and pulled it wider. Ros heard a crash and a metallic clang. When she closed the door behind her, Lucas was staring in what looked like bewilderment at the umbrellas that had fallen from the metal stand he had just tripped over. Ros decided to re-set his security codes herself. At the moment, she doubted he'd be able to remember what they were.

"What's wrong?" It seemed to be gradually dawning on Lucas that she probably hadn't just dropped in for afternoon tea. He yawned enormously, stretched his arms above his head, then shivered and rubbed them.

Ros righted the umbrella stand. "Coffee." She edged round him towards the kitchen. Lucas kissed her ear as she passed.

"Nice to see you too, boss." He followed her in and tugged on a sweater that had been hanging off the back of a chair, as Ros set about putting the kettle on. "My father always says t – " another yawn interrupted him – "says time passes more quickly the older you get. That was a hell of a speedy forty-eight hours."

"Diddums," Ros said unsympathetically. She rummaged in the bread-bin, the contents of which seemed to consist largely of crumbs, and gave him a hard look. "Go and have a shower. Once your brain's on line I'll bring you up to speed."

She saw Lucas's face tense, but he managed a smile to go with the mock salute as he went to do as he was told. Despite the time that had elapsed since his return from Russia, he still hated taking showers; his fear of being under water had never really dissipated. When Ros was still undergoing rehabilitation after the bombing, she had been advised that gentle swimming was the best exercise she could take. Lucas had insisted on accompanying her to the swimming pool – once. He _had_ managed to get into the water, but it had taken Ros fifteen minutes to coax him out of the shallow end, and the instant he had received a faceful of water from the kicking feet of another swimmer, he had panicked to such an extent that she had had to help him to the side and out. Ros, ashamed by her own failure to understand how deep his trauma ran, had refused point-blank to let him go anywhere near a swimming pool with her since. Now he exercised by running on the common, something that the legacy of her injuries dictated that she could only watch. _What a bloody pair._

She had given up on trying to make toast out of the few crusts of bread and excavated a half-eaten packet of chocolate biscuits from the cupboards to go with the coffee by the time Lucas returned. His hair was damp, but he was clean-shaven, fully dressed, and looked as if his mind was back in gear. Ros poured coffee for both of them and explained to him what had happened, where they were going and why, while he listened intently and ate three biscuits in succession.

"Where did you say Pemberton lives again?" he asked at last.

"Village on the outskirts of Windsor," Ros answered. "Eton Wick - within spitting distance of the school and Eton Dorney. His place is near the edge of the common. There's a pub there; we'll have a stroll round, something to eat," she looked meaningfully at the shrinking number of chocolate biscuits, "and then go in after closing time."

Lucas drank his coffee thoughtfully for a moment.

"What do we expect to find?" he asked at last.

Ros shrugged. "Jihadis living in the boathouse, booby-trapped oars hanging on the walls, Pemberton's body in the linen basket with the used singlets and shorts? No idea. Something that will point us in the right direction – wherever that is." She removed the last biscuit herself and bit off a piece. "There's _something_ not right here, Lucas. Either we find out what it is this way or we find out when it's too late, once something, somewhere's blown sky-high. Because I doubt Mahmood's going to send us an invitation to his bloody party in advance with the date, address and details of the entertainment."

"Maybe Khalida's contacts will come up with something," Lucas offered. "You told me she has a good network of assets among some of the more dangerous groups."

"Yeah, she does." Ros glanced at her watch. "But we can't rely on that alone. Or on Ruth finding some obscure piece of Iranian poetry about a one-eyed lovestruck unicorn that when translated, transcribed and transferred into plain English, actually means there's a bomb in the car park in Threadneedle Street." She saw Lucas wince. "What?"

He coloured slightly. "That's a bit harsh, Ros. Ruth knows her job, and she's bloody good at it."

"I never said she wasn't," Ros snapped. "But it isn't Ruth who'll have to pick up the bodies if we don't stop whatever this is. And I've never known people feel less devastated because their friends and families have been blown to smithereens by a _cultured_ bloody maniac, have you?"

Lucas hesitated. "No, but – you really should give her a break, Ros … ease off a bit."

"Should I, really?" Ros said icily. Lucas squirmed at her tone, and an expression of relief flickered across his face as her phone rang. Ros snatched it up. "Myers. Yes, Khalida." She got up and turned her back on Lucas as she listened to Khalida's report on her meetings with some of her assets. "I see. Yes. Yes, OK. Good job. And you're sure you're clean? Right. Yes." She glared at Lucas as he moved to the sink to wash up, and walked out into the hall. "OK, thanks, Khalida." She waited for a second. "Harry." She saw Lucas look over his shoulder. "Yes, I'm there. We'll be leaving in a few minutes. No, he's fine."

_Put him on for a minute._ She held the phone out to Lucas. "Harry wants to talk to you." As he took it, she added: "We need to get moving. I'll wait for you in the car." Without further ado, she turned and walked out of the flat.

oOoOoOo

She spurned Lucas's offer to drive, and they negotiated their way back across the river through the heavy early evening traffic in a tense and uncomfortable silence. Ros knew this wasn't the way in which to go into an operation, and that she was behaving unprofessionally, but she was _damned_ if she was going to make the first move. It was enough that she had Harry metaphorically riding his white charger to Ruth's bloody rescue every five minutes. If Lucas started as well, they'd need a stable under Thames House rather than a garage. She felt his eyes on her a couple of times, but concentrated stubbornly on the road. They had just picked up the M4 south of Boston Manor Park when she saw the sign pointing off north-east – _Northfields, Boston Manor, Evershed Sports Ground._ Ros snatched a glance at Lucas just as he shot one at her.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude," he said awkwardly. "I know you have issues with her."

"Yeah, I shopped her and drove her into exile, and she thoroughly enjoyed proving to me just what a grubby little shit my father really was." Ros snorted. "_Issues._"

"I said I was sorry." Lucas sighed. "Peace treaty?" he asked, tentatively.

"Ceasefire," Ros retorted, and moved into the outside lane as the traffic finally began to move more fluidly. "What did Harry want?"

"Oh, just the report I filed on that gymnast. Nothing special. She's been moved to a safe house while they process the asylum application."

"Good." Ros tried to inject more enthusiasm into her voice than she felt. She had completely forgotten about the young Belorussian. With a slight twinge of guilt she recalled that she had also omitted to remind Callum Reed about the need to cool the patriotic ardour of Comrade Baranovich. _Never mind. Later._ At the moment, they had more urgent matters on their agenda than a teenage contortionist in sparkly Lycra, but she wouldn't tell Lucas that - not now, anyway.

The light was fading when they reached Eton Wick, but there was enough left for a stroll around the village by a couple of tourists. Ros parked the car at the Greyhound pub on Common Road. Alexander Pemberton's cottage was actually a little further on towards Saddocks Farm, after which the road led out into Eton Little Common, but Ros shook her head when Lucas suggested they go that way.

"There's nothing up there but the house, the farm, and open land. We're tourists. Let's go and admire the church, look at the shops, and go to the pub. And make it convincing."

"Yessir." Lucas grinned, and then hooked her arm through his. Ros stiffened instantly – she had always made it clear that displays of affection in public were strictly _verboten_, but when Lucas murmured easily: "Convincing?" and smiled his most charming smile at an elderly couple heading into the pub, she forced herself to relax. _You win the battle; I win the war._

They wandered around for an hour, by which time the streets were empty and the church had joined the shops in closing. With the light had gone the little warmth of an autumn day, and Lucas zipped his jacket against the chill.

"Time to eat," he said firmly. 'You know what this weather does to your breathing. You're supposed to avoid the cold."

Ros glowered at him. "Will you for God's sake stop fussing?"

"OK!" Now it was Lucas's turn to look offended – genuinely so, she thought. "Fine - none of my business. Just don't expect me to wait for you to catch up if we need to make a quick exit … boss."

He strode across the car park and into the pub, leaving her standing there. Ros's first instinct was to storm after him and give him the tongue-lashing he was asking for, but then she hesitated. Like Harry, Lucas had spent hours at her bedside in the intensive care unit, _and_ taken care of her afterwards. That was all he was trying to do now. It wasn't his fault that she always read such attempts as a hint that she was too feeble to be in the field any longer, and went instantly on the defensive. She sighed. They were both on edge, and as the senior officer it was her job – which at the moment she wasn't doing - to ensure they were calm and focused during any operation. _So do it._

She followed him in and found him standing by the bar reading a menu card.

"What do you want?" he asked abruptly.

"A large slice of humble pie." Ros reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. "And maybe a glass of sour grape juice. If they've got any."

She was relieved to see a smile crinkle the lines around his eyes and mouth. "Oddly enough, the special tonight's sweet and sour." Ros couldn't help smiling back. Lucas gave her a quick hug. "Grab a seat." He glanced around the low-beamed room. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

oOoOoOo

The pub wasn't very busy, and Ros took a table near the window while Lucas gave their order and chatted up the barmaid with his usual charm. Their proximity to Eton Dorney made discussion of the Olympics natural, and it was easy for Lucas to drop the name of Alex Pemberton into the conversation. As they ate, he relayed quietly to Ros what the woman had said – that the rower was very popular locally – '_well, he would be, he's really put us on the map, hasn't he_'- but that Pemberton also liked his privacy, hence the relative isolation of his cottage.

No, she hadn't seen him lately, except that once when he popped in to show everyone his medal. Probably gone off somewhere to get away from it all with Dominique; it had been a heck of a few weeks, hadn't it, with all the excitement.

It certainly had. Lucas smiled his agreement. "You must have been heaving in here, with all the visitors to the rowing."

"Heaving's the word, young man; jammed to the doors and overflowing most days. Not only spectators, either! Some of the athletes weren't above dropping in some evenings, once they'd finished their competitions, of course, and some of them, well, bigger than you, dear, couldn't stand upright in here. Much as you could do to raise a glass, I tell you, and all colours and creeds. Like the United Nations, it was. Alex came in one time – didn't drink, mind, nothing but orange juice, he was still competing then – was with two strapping great lads."

Lucas winked. "No-one builds them quite like the British."

The woman gave a smile that was almost girlish. "Quite right. Though I was a bit surprised one of them was … well, you know …" she hesitated, "a _Paki._ Didn't think they went in for rowing, more cricket and all."

Lucas looked convincingly surprised. "I don't remember our having a Pakistani on the squad – but then with my memory, especially for exotic names…"

"Oh, I remember his name, dear. Sayeed. Like the boy on _Eastenders._ But not Masood. Malik."

"Wow." Lucas had looked at her admiringly. "Now _that's _a memory_."_

She had positively preened, and then glanced past him towards Ros, who was already texting a message, had she but known it, to the head of counter-terrorism at MI-5. "Well, I do pride myself … but I think you'd best go and pay your girlfriend some attention, dear." She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. "Pretty little thing, but she'd blow away in a high wind. Tell her to try the apple tart and cream – put some padding on her. Those rowers could pick her up with one hand. "

"I'd like to see them try," Ros snarled, when Lucas gleefully reported the comment over coffee. The pub was emptying out, but she kept her voice to a murmur. "I've texted Harry. They can start checking. If it _was_ him, and he's still using that alias – at least we have a name."

Lucas nodded as the closing bell tinkled behind the bar. He glanced around. Apart from himself and Ros, only one elderly couple remained.

"Time to go?" he asked. When Ros nodded, he went to pay the bill while she disappeared to the toilet and then out into the car park. She had the engine running when Lucas joined her. He rubbed his hands together.

"Turned cold," he observed as he slid into the car.

"At least it's clear," Ros answered, gesturing up to the now star-filled sky. "We're not going to be able to go in there with a bloody laser light show. And first, we need to leave this thing somewhere." She drove slowly back towards the main road, away from the cottage – just in case the pub landlord or his wife were taking an interest.

"Here," Lucas said suddenly, pointing at a lay-by overgrown with trees. "Stop right at the end, you'd need night glasses to spot it. And there was a signpost just back there – footpath to Saddocks Farm. We can skirt the pub and reach the cottage through the fields."

Ros nodded. She didn't relish the idea of negotiating a field in the dark, stars or not, but she obediently parked under some low, overhanging branches and took the plastic bag from the back seat. "I'll need to change." She half-expected Lucas to make a flippant comment, but now that the preliminaries were over he was in full operation mode, and he merely waited in the shadows, watching the road, while Ros changed as quickly as she could, shivering in the chill. She pulled a face as her inhaler slipped from her jacket pocket. The last thing she wanted was Lucas fussing again, but if she were to need it and it wasn't to hand, her wretched chest could be a sodding liability. Reluctantly, she shoved it and her pride back into her tracksuit, and moved to the side of the dark shadow that was Lucas. "Ready?"

"Yep." He hesitated. "You armed?"

"Yeah. Harry insisted." Ros tapped the gun she had tucked into the back of her tracksuit pants.

"OK." For a moment she felt his hand on hers. "Then you lead."

oOoOoOo

They inched cautiously out into the field, which Ros thought hadn't seen a tractor, or rain, for some time. _Thank God for that._ Mud, or deep rutted furrows would have made the job almost impossible. She kept her eyes on the ground all the same, sensing that Lucas was looking around, straining for signs of untoward movement. They froze into immobility for a long minute as they passed the pub while the landlord's terrier whined and barked, and Lucas whispered a stream of Russian curses under his breath at it. At last they reached an obviously man-made hedge, and saw beyond it the shadowed outline of Alex Pemberton's cottage. Ros stopped and held her hand up for Lucas to do likewise. She gave it a full minute, but the only sound was the eerie shrieking of an owl in a nearby tree. She half-turned and gestured to Lucas that she would go to the front of the cottage and that he should case the back entrance. Then she eased the gate open and the two of them slipped through. Lucas broke into a run and was gone almost immediately into the darkness. Ros slid her gun into her hand and advanced more slowly across the garden, all her nerves taut. When the owl swooped from its perch, flapping low over her head, she almost shrieked herself, and ducked hurriedly into the shelter of the doorway. Again she waited and checked around. There were no lights in the house, no sounds, and no sense of any human presence. Neither, as far as she could see, was there any sign of an alarm system. Either Alex Pemberton was very naïve, or he thought the cottage remote enough not to need one.

"Ros." Lucas's voice was barely audible and coming from the corner of the house. "We're in."

She followed him round to the back door, where with the help of one of Callum's little devices, he had slipped the lock. Quietly he closed it behind them, and again, they waited, allowing their senses to probe the stillness before moving further.

"Upstairs," Ros whispered. She watched his shadow move up the narrow staircase, then advanced soundlessly into the living room and began to search. Both she and Lucas were trained to do this quickly and without leaving obvious traces of their passage, but speed was relative in semi-darkness. It didn't help that the room was surprisingly cluttered; it reminded Ros of her maternal grandmother's home in which she and her siblings had spent many an uncomfortable Sunday, afraid to move for fear of breaking something. A wind had arisen, and the low moaning sound it was making, combined with the occasional creaking of the floor joists under Lucas's weight upstairs, did nothing to steady her nerves. Ros took the risk of flicking on the torch on her mobile phone, shielding the light with her palm. The sooner they were out of here, the better. She spotted her goal – a beautiful oak desk – on the far side of the room, moved quickly to it and began to rifle through the drawers as fast as she could. The central drawer was locked. Ros swore silently and began to work on the lock. It yielded with a crack just as the door creaked. Heart pounding, gun extended, Ros span round, and recognised Lucas's silhouette.

"Anything?" he murmured.

"Laptop." She pulled it out triumphantly and handed it to him. Lucas slid it into the rucksack he was wearing. Ros swiftly examined the desk top.

"Diary," she whispered. "Old-fashioned in this day and age." She gave him that too. "Disarrange things a bit." She moved away and started checking the bookshelves, making sure to leave enough disorder in her wake to suggest that Alex Pemberton had been the victim of a burglary rather than a visit from MI-5. Over at the desk, Lucas was doing the same. He upended a chair and an occasional table, and put three of the trophies displayed on the mantelpiece into his rucksack.

"Ros!" he hissed, and tapped his wrist. _Time._ Ros nodded. She pushed a row of books into an untidy heap, and a wad of paper slid to the floor with several of them. She stooped to retrieve it and realised that it was a bundle of letters tied with an elastic band. _Who the hell keeps letters in this way any more?_ It was unusual enough to be of interest.

"We need to go." Lucas had joined her.

"Yeah. Take these. What about upstairs?"

"iPhone was in the bedside table drawer. Bathroom's chock full of stuff, his 'n hers. Girlfriend must be around a lot – bedroom's all frilly and chic." Ros nodded. They'd need to investigate 'Dominique'. She switched off her torch and they both waited to adjust their eyes.

"OK, let's move." They re-opened the back door. "Break the glass, leave it open." Ros waited as Lucas used his elbow to do so, and then stamped on the glass to shatter it.

"Field?" he asked.

"Road." It was quicker, and Ros's priority now was to get them out of the area. Silently, they moved towards the front of the house. Both scanned the garden, and then trotted side by side across it towards Common Road.

A shower of leaves and splinters of bark sprayed from the oak tree, as the bullet struck it. Ros threw herself to the ground, and saw Lucas diving for shelter beneath a nearby rhododendron bush. Two more bullets cracked into the trunk of the tree, and she glimpsed a flash from the gun that had fired them. She yanked her own free and fired twice in rapid succession towards it.

"Where are they?" Lucas was peering around through the foliage, trying to locate the gunman.

_Too sodding close._ "On the road. Head for the field! I'll hold them off." She heard movement to her left and fired in its direction.

" But you - " Lucas protested.

"Do you need it written in Year Two English?" Ros exploded. "_Move!_" Again she heard movement and peered round the tree to fire. A loud shattering of exploding glass told her that her shot had hit the greenhouse. "That's an order!" Now she could make out a shadowy figure running for the shelter of the cottage. She took another shot at it and thought she heard a stifled yell. "Run, Lucas, for Christ's sake! _Run!_"

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading! Please review! _


	5. Chapter 5

_CHAPTER FIVE_

"Where's your inhaler?" Lucas demanded as he started the engine.

Ros fumbled for it, but it was no longer in her pocket. "Just – drive … _go … _fine," she gasped. She knew she wasn't. Lucas's face was as distorted as if she were looking into a trick mirror at the funfair, and her breathing sounded like Darth Vadar's. "_Now_!"

The car skidded back onto the road and almost fishtailed as Lucas slammed the accelerator to the floor. Ros hung on to the door with her left hand and, barely able to see what she was doing, rummaged in the glove compartment with her right. _Don't panic, breathe slowly._ _Yeah, right. _It was counter-instinctive when your lungs were burning, your muscles cramping, and your brain screaming for oxygen.

"Here." Lucas's hand shoved something into her hers. The car rocked left, barely slowing, and sped down the main road, lights from shop-front windows and mist-haloed streetlamps flashing past in a nauseatingly unfocussed blur. Ros managed to grasp the airline sick-bag and hold it over her mouth. Lucas was saying something, but her own wheezing blotted out the words. She managed a painful croak of '_what?_'.

He raised his voice." I think we're clear. I'll stop once we're on the motorway."

"No … need." Ros's ribs still felt as if they were being used to fit a corset on a woman with a serious obesity problem, but her vision was gradually clearing, and she was beginning to breathe rather than pant. "Need - to be … out – of … here. Before – the police …. turn up."

"We will be," Lucas snapped. "Unless they do me for speeding. Belt up." As Ros squinted up at him incredulously, he pointed at her seat belt. "Motorway."

Ros did as she was told as he swerved onto it and put on his headlights; for the first time, she realised that he had so far been driving without them. Lucas went straight into the outside lane and kept his foot down. "You all right now?"

"Yeah." Ros lowered the paper bag. Her head was pounding, but that wasn't visible or audible, so it didn't count.

"You bloody fool!" Lucas flicked the overhead light on, and in its sludgy glow, Ros could see the fury blazing in his eyes. "Why the hell don't you carry a spare inhaler with you in case trouble starts when you're on an op?"

"Because I usually find a gun's a lot more useful!" Ros's own voice rose to match his. "Or would you have preferred me to fight them off by spraying salbutamol in their faces?"

"This isn't a bloody joke!" Lucas exploded. "It's crass irresponsibility_, _Ros! You need to accept you don't have full fitness any more!"

For a moment, Ros wondered if lack of oxygen was giving her aural hallucinations. God knows she and Lucas didn't see eye to eye on everything, but he had never challenged her in this way before.

"Don't you _dare_ lecture me!" she spat. "I'm not a bloody cripple - " She broke off as Lucas turned sharply off into a motorway service area. He swung the car behind the toilet block where it was invisible from the road, turned in his seat and glared at her.

"Yes you _are!_ Without that thing that's _exactly_ what you are, Ros! For Christ's sake, don't you realise that you could have died back there?"

_If I hadn't gone back for you._ The unspoken words hung in the air, thicker than the mist drifting over the countryside, and, Ros thought, a lot less likely to be cleared away by a brisk westerly breeze. An electric silence followed his words, broken only by the crackling of the paper bag as she involuntarily crushed it in her fist. She stared at him for a long minute, then snapped her belt loose and shoved the door open.

"Ros!" Lucas's hand clamped around her wrist. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"Then why did you say it?" She wrenched her hand free and got out. "I need to phone Harry. Stay here."

She walked far enough to be out of earshot and dialled Harry's number. There was still a slight, residual pain in her chest, but she closed her mind to it and to the infinitely more intense pain of Lucas's accusation. _Not now, Ros._ It could be dealt with later. First she had to finish this job, and that meant alerting Harry to what had happened before the news reached him via the police.

"Ros." Despite the fact that it was past one in the morning, he sounded awake and intent. "Where are you?"

Ros told him, and explained what had happened, ignoring the muffled curses with which he punctuated her words. When she had finished, he asked sharply: "Are you both all right?" Ros gave the automatic lie in response, and he said briskly: "Right. I'll deal with it, Ros. Issue a D-notice if need be. But I don't want either of you going home right now; let me get a lid on things first. Head for safe-house Tango Lima. You know it?"

"Yes." Ros glanced over her shoulder. Lucas was standing by the car, watching her. "What about the laptop and the rest of Pemberton's stuff?"

"Bring it all in first thing in the morning; we'll let Callum loose on the laptop then. Could either of you have been identified in Eton Wick?"

"No," Ros answered. "Vague physical description from the publican, maybe, but no names; Lucas paid in cash. Possibly the car number plate, if anyone was alert enough to have memorised it."

"Dump it," Harry said, decisively. "Once you get to town, leave it, get Lucas to remove the plate and throw it into a drain somewhere. Walk to the safe-house. Clear?"

"Clear," Ros agreed.

"Right. Then get moving. I'll alert Tango Lima and start smothering the baby. Check in when you get there."

Ros clicked the phone off and walked back to the car. There was relatively little traffic on the motorway, given the hour, and theirs was the only vehicle in the car park.

"All quiet?" she asked.

"Yeah, but a pair of panda cars shot past a few minutes ago heading for Windsor," Lucas answered. "Ros - "

Instantly she cut him off.

"Then we need to get the hell out of here. Let's move." As he eased the car back onto the motorway, she said flatly: "Stay within the limits, and when we get to the Hammersmith Flyover, come off the A4." She felt Lucas look at her in surprise. "We dump the car and go to ground at a safe house in Shepherd's Bush. Harry's orders." Lucas's eyebrows rose, but he seemed to decide that for the moment at least, discretion was the better part of valour, and wisely took refuge in silence. Ros stared out of the side window to encourage him. She didn't want to hear his apology for words he had spoken in heat but in complete sincerity. They hurt all the more because she knew he was right. She carried her inhaler on duty unwillingly to begin with, and thought of it only as a concession that she had to make to Harry in order to be remain an active field officer. To carry a back-up would be an admission to everyone – including herself - that the damned thing wasn't just a sop to the medical bureaucrats in Thames House, but a vital necessity.

_You've already sodding well proved that, Myers._ She had covered Lucas's escape back into the fields, and when the firing stopped, inched her own way backwards, in a crouching position like an elderly crab, to the gate. The arm that encircled her throat as she straightened had taken her completely by surprise, but training took over. Instantly, Ros had kicked out, hard. Rewarded by a high-pitched squeal of pain and a loosening of her victim's grip, she broke his hold, struck out with her gun at his face and ran.

Which was when it had all gone wrong. Within a few hundred metres she had felt her chest tighten, begun to lose speed and been aware of her assailant gaining on her. Fighting for breath, increasingly dizzy and with her legs in spasm from cramp, she had stumbled and was trying to claw herself upright again when she had literally been jerked to her feet.

"Hold on!" Lucas had snatched her gun, fired twice towards the shadow lurching in pursuit, then heaved Ros, wheezing and semi-conscious, onto his shoulders and carried her the remaining distance to the car.

_Like a bloody cripple._ She glanced at Lucas as the headlights of a westbound juggernaut washed over the car. He smiled slightly, just one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in the way that acknowledged that he was in for a prolonged stay on the naughty step.

"Sorry. Really."

"Doesn't matter." She tried for casual, but as usual the words came out sounding more aggressive than apologetic. "You were right. I was reckless and unprofessional and I put you at risk. You're entitled to be angry." With relief, she saw the floodlit diversion of the Hammersmith Flyover looming ahead of them. _Saved._ "Here. Next exit."

Obediently, Lucas turned off and negotiated his way through to the residential streets that lay behind the brutalist concrete tapeworm of the flyover. A row of dilapidated-looking garages near the railway line offered the perfect site in which to abandon the car. Ros kept a lookout while Lucas, in the glow of his mobile screen, painstakingly unscrewed the number plates, which he then dumped down an unprotected manhole from which thieves had obligingly stolen the cover. The clanging splash that marked their landing startled a scavenging fox into a panicky dash for the shadows.

"Where now?" Lucas enquired, as he shouldered the rucksack with their booty.

"Goldhawk Road," Ros pointed north and took the plastic bag with her clothes off the back seat. She shook her head when Lucas offered to carry it. "Come on."

It was almost three a.m. by the time they reached the safe-house, a tiny walk-up flat over a tandoori restaurant. Lucas sniffed the curry-scented air as they entered.

"You hungry?" he asked. "You could fill your stomach on the smell alone." He went to slide up the old-fashioned sash window, but Ros shook her head.

"Draw the curtains." When he had, she flicked on a table lamp and went into the miniscule kitchen, where she put on the kettle. "Tea?"

"Yeah, thanks." Lucas looked around at the scratched tiles and tarnished sink. "Not quite Pemberton's cottage, is it? No feminine touch around here."

Ros half-smiled. "The restaurant owner's an old army friend of Harry's - sharp eyes, a tight mouth, and no interest in interior décor. Probably doesn't have the depth of Sir Roger's pockets, either."

Lucas pulled a face. "So where's the bedroom?"

"That's it. Pull out sofa." Ros pointed back into the front room and rummaged for teabags.

"Right." Lucas seemed uncertain. "I'll pull it, then." He disappeared. Ros sent Harry an SMS to say they'd arrived safely, and then followed with the tea.

"Thanks." Lucas, seated on the edge of the bed, patted it. Ros hesitated, then, in the absence of anywhere else to sit other than the floor, joined him. For a moment they perched awkwardly side by side, clutching their mugs like a couple of black-clad bookends. Then he sighed.

"Ros, I wasn't really angry. I _wasn't_," as she raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Good imitation."

He made a sound of exasperation. "Haven't _you_ ever looked angry when you've had the living daylights scared out of you? I thought he'd shot you, I thought you'd had a heart attack – I don't know _what _I thought! You told me to leave you once before, remember? I almost lost you then -" He stopped abruptly and shook his head. "Oh, forget it, what's the use?" The words were a mutter of resignation. "Go on, tell me you didn't need help. Say I should have followed orders. Say you were _fine_ – as per bloody usual."

Ros, who had been carrying out a forensic study of her tea, looked up. His face looked even more disconsolate than his words had sounded. God knows, for an attractive man, Lucas had a dismal record with women – a wife who'd abandoned him, and then two girlfriends in succession shot dead in front of him. She reflected wryly that in taking up with her, his report card didn't seem to be improving. But even she recognised a cry from the heart when she heard it, and the bloody wuss _had_ saved her life.

"Or I could say thank you." His jaw dropped so far she expected to hear the splash as it hit the tea. She smiled awkwardly and gave him a swift kiss. "Thanks, Lucas."

He returned her smile and segued straight into a yawn. Ros felt herself returning the compliment.

"We'd better get some sleep," she said. "Harry wants that laptop in Callum's hands first thing." She wondered briefly how good a job their boss was making of suppressing the potentially embarrassing echoes of the evening's flying bullets in Eton Wick.

Lucas rubbed his eyes wearily and nodded. "There's something about that place … _something_ … it's bothering me. I don't know what it is … _something._"

There was a positive plethora of '_something_'s bothering Ros, starting with exactly who had made such a determined attempt to kill both of them, but neither she nor Lucas had the energy to tackle them now. She stood up decisively.

"Sleep." She rounded the sofa and examined the crumpled, limp-looking duvet with distaste. "God. Section E must have been hacking the budget to pieces, never mind cutting it."

Lucas laughed, kicked off his trainers and rolled towards the centre of the sofa – easily done since the cushions sloped steadily inwards. He grinned, as Ros was frustrated in her attempt to curl up on the other edge and slithered down to join him.

"I'll keep you warm." He tossed the duvet over the two of them, and Ros, knowing when she was beaten, ducked under it, wriggled against him and let herself drift into sleep.

oOoOoOoOo

They diverted to Ros's flat – the closest – to clean up before heading for the Grid in the morning. Lucas had expressed misgivings about doing so without Harry's clearance, but Ros over-ruled him. Both of them were perfectly capable of spotting a stakeout by police in blue helmets or baddies in black hats. Anyway, ID or not, no one would admit them to Thames House dressed like cartoon burglars and smelling of cordite and cowpats. Besides, she added defiantly, she needed to collect a new inhaler.

That silenced him. Two showers and a quick stop for coffee and croissants later, they emerged through the pods to be greeted by a harassed-looking Ruth Evershed.

"What on earth's happened?" she asked. "Harry was here when I got in this morning, and he looks as if he's spent all night on the Grid." They could see Harry restlessly pacing his office like a sprinter on the start line, a phone clamped to his ear. "He's been on the phone non-stop."

Just then, Harry looked towards them. His free hand beckoned, and they crossed the Grid and slipped into the office just as the call ended. He snarled a few words at the phone that suggested he had serious doubts about the instrument's parentage, and looked them both up and down.

"If it had been Brixton, I could have said it was a gang bust-up. Aldershot – someone run amok on the base. Even in Surrey someone could have had a few too many at the local Clay Pigeon Shooting club weekend hop. But _you_, Rosalind, have to go and get yourself involved in a midnight shoot-out in a deserted cornfield in Eton bloody Wick!"

The words crescendoed to a shout. Ros bit her lip and stared at the carpet. Embarrassed humility seemed to be the safest option for the moment. Harry started to circle his desk.

"I distinctly remember our honourable friend mentioning kid gloves." His eyes bored into her. "You _did_ hear him?" When Ros nodded, he barked, "Then what the bloody hell did you think he meant? Mittens from Mothercare?"

"I think - " Ros began, but she stopped when Harry came level with her again, his face a twitching purplish blob inches from hers.

"I'm relieved to hear it. I was starting to assume you'd given up thinking for Lent!" He leaned on his desk, exhaled deeply and asked more quietly: "Are you quite sure you're both all right?"

Lucas spoke quickly. "Yes, Harry. We're fine." He held out the rucksack. "The laptop."

Harry pulled it out. "Go and fetch Callum." As Lucas exited, he snapped, "What else?"

Ros gave him the desk diary and the pile of letters from the bookshelf. Harry frowned. "Old-fashioned. Girlfriend?"

"We think so," Ros answered. "The barmaid said Dominique. Maybe Ruth could start checking?"

Harry nodded. "And there was absolutely no sign of Pemberton at the cottage?"

"None at all." Ros took out the two trophies. Harry's eyebrows shot up, and she bit back a smile. "No significance. We were trying to make it look like a burglary."

"Just as well," Harry said sardonically. "That's the cover story we've used." He waved her to a seat and took one himself. "Now I'll _have_ to retire." He grimaced. "I've got no more favours left to call in." As Ros tried to look sympathetic, he continued, "I begged, badgered and all but bribed the Met to have a word with the Chief Constable of the Berkshire force." He sighed. "So - there was an attempted burglary at Alex Pemberton's last night and the would-be burglars were surprised by a local poacher – hence the shooting they heard up at Saddocks Farm. The CC and his SIO have signed the Act, so any embarrassing leaks have been plugged … for the moment." He glanced up as Lucas returned with Callum in tow.

"Hi boss," the technical specialist said breezily to Ros, apparently oblivious to the freezing look she gave him in return. "Got a present for me, Harry? Whoa." He turned the laptop over and looked it admiringly. "Nice piece of kit. What do you want?"

"Everything," Harry said. "Crack it wide open. Fast."

"Yessir." Callum was halfway out of the door when Harry said: "Hang on. What's the situation with that Belorussian goon? Moron … Boron - "

"Baranovich," Lucas supplied quietly, trying very hard, Ros noticed, not to smirk.

Callum lounged casually against the door-jamb, and Ros firmly quashed the itch to get up and straighten him up by the shirt-collar. "I got Section A's happy snaps over to Special Branch. One of their young Turks had a chat with him the next time he turned up shouting the odds at the Yard. Took him for a little drinkies at The Feathers." He grinned. "Turned his ale downright sour, so I heard."

Harry grunted. "Good. Well?" when Callum didn't move. He waved one of Alex Pemberton's trophies at him. "Do _you_ want a medal or something too?"

Callum's self-satisfied smile turned rather fixed, and Ros was uncharitably pleased to note the speed of his withdrawal from the room. Harry closed the door after him with more firmness than was strictly necessary.

"Well, that's one problem less," she offered.

"Is it," Harry said, dryly. Ros frowned, but he just stood for a moment gazing out into the Grid and rubbing his chin with his hand. "I had to wake the Home Secretary up at two-thirty this morning to explain _why_ Eton Wick had suddenly become the Home Counties' answer to the OK Corral. We agreed that given the concern Sir Roger Pemberton's already expressed about his son's suddenly dropping off the radar, no cover-up can extend to his being unaware of the attempted robbery at the cottage. So he will be informed of it this morning by the CC of the Berkshire police and then _discreetly and deferentially_ interviewed by two officers of his force." He looked intently at Ros. "Ruth has prepared you a cover, and the CC in Berkshire has been briefed."

Ros glanced at Lucas and then nodded. It made sense, and whatever jitters the idea might give to William Towers, they needed to probe Sir Roger. "So when do we talk to him?"

"Not 'we'," Harry said. "You go with Chen Liu. At his home in Kensington, two thirty."

Ros hesitated. She had confidence in Chen Liu, but he was inexperienced for a sensitive meeting like this. She would be a lot happier if Lucas accompanied her – and by the look on his face, so would he.

"Harry, Lucas would - "

"Lucas has another assignment," Harry said brusquely. "We've had several calls from the people guarding that lass … Akayeva. Say she's very distressed. Keeps saying she has information we need to know, that she has to tell us – 'us' being the British – but she won't talk to the police. Something about her brother, apparently. She keeps saying she'll only tell 'that young man who speaks Russian'. So the powers-that-be have decided you're going to see what it is she's so concerned about, Lucas. Callum's been liaising with them, get their numbers from him and set up a meeting."

_For Christ's sake! _Ros shifted impatiently in her chair. "Harry, she's been given asylum and protection. If she needs tea and sympathy as well, isn't this a job for Amnesty International? Or the Refugee Council?"

"Or the White Fish Authority?" Harry enquired sarcastically. "Orders, Ros."

"We've got a major bloody terrorist on the loose and possible home-grown involvement as well," she protested. "I can't waste officers' time on this."

"_Orders_," Harry repeated, in a tone that brought a sulky halt to her objections. He looked at his watch. "Go and see Ruth and sort out your cover."

"What about Khalida; is there any news from any of her assets?" Ros asked, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

"Not yet," Harry answered. "They're out on a limb; you know we can't push them, Ros. She's been helping Ruth to review the harvest from the phone taps. Tell Callum to chase up those bods who were making up the identikit shots of Mahmood; they're taking forever, and this is a terrorist hunt, not an art class. Once we have them, Khalida can go back to her assets with something they can look for." As Ros and Lucas turned for the door, he said sharply: "Ros, tread softly with Pemberton senior. _Faberge_ eggshells. Clear?"

Ros muttered a '_yes, Harry_' through gritted teeth, and slid the door open just as he spoke again.

"Lucas, hold your horses, I want a word with you."

Lucas turned in surprise, and asked warily, "Me?"

Harry cocked a sardonic eyebrow. "Well, unless your name's really Rosalind and you dress in skirts, then yes, you."

Lucas glanced down at Ros. Ros considered – but only for a fraction of a second - asking why the cloak and dagger. _Pointless, Myers. _This, after all, was the bloody _home_ of cloak and dagger, and their nocturnal adventures in Eton Wick had turned the barometer of Harry's mood quite far enough towards _Stormy _already. Lucas, understandably after 'Boliviagate', was afraid he was about to be carpeted for an offence as yet unspecified. Ros was far more concerned that Harry was about to winkle out of him the details of her physical problems during their escape.

She made a pallid effort at a reassuring smile, and reluctantly left the office. Chen Liu was just emerging from the kitchen with a cup of tea. Something about his perpetual cheerfulness reminded Ros of a young Jo Portman – without, she prayed silently, the young Jo's naivety. Now he stopped with his usual eager smile, though a tinge of nervousness joined it as he took in her disgruntled expression.

"Ros? Want one of these?" He held the cup towards her appeasingly.

Ros shook her head. "Thanks. We need to interview Sir Roger Pemberton. How do you fancy being a detective from the Berkshire Constabulary for a couple of hours?" His face lit up. "Right. Come with me."

She guided him briskly across to the desk, nestled behind three walls of filing cabinets, where Ruth and Khalida were deep in concentration with headphones clamped over their ears. Ruth jumped a foot when her shoulder was tapped, but when she saw Ros she recovered quickly, and smiled.

"Ah, D.I. Myers and Constable Chen." Chen laughed; Ros noted that the initials would make her DIM, and didn't. As Ruth turned to one of the filing cabinets, she looked behind her. Lucas was still in the office, deep in conversation with Harry – _and_ doing most of the talking. Later, she'd find out about _what_ exactly.

Meanwhile, it was more important to ascertain precisely how much Sir Roger Pemberton knew about his Olympic offspring that he wasn't telling them. She turned back to become acquainted with Detective Inspector Alice Drummond and Detective Constable Guowei Tang, whose job it would be to find out.

oOoOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading! Please review! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

Ros and Chen were waiting for the lift when Ros heard her name being called and turned to see Lucas running towards them. She tossed the car keys to the young Chinese.

"Dark blue Volvo, GVC 267X. I'll be down in a sec."

"OK!" He disappeared into the lift. Ros turned towards Lucas.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Nothing, I just wanted to say good luck."

Ros rolled her eyes. "I'm interviewing a government bureaucrat, Lucas. The main risk in that is death by drivel. And the only thing likely to be fired is a verbal broadside."

"Yeah, I know, but -" he stopped as two officers emerged from the lift, and waited until they were a safe distance away. "Just watch yourself, will you? Please?" He stroked a stray strand of hair from her face, and his fingers lingered on her skin. "For my sake if not for yours."

Ros sighed inwardly. She had made it clear to Lucas, more than once, that their feelings for each other – even if she still wasn't sure what they were – must _not _interfere with work. Adam had understood that instinctively, and it was a principle to which he and she had adhered strictly – including at that final meeting that, even now, Ros shied away from remembering. Lucas did his best, she'd give him that, but the common sense in his head was always at risk of losing out to the sentimentality in his heart. She didn't want to upset him; his compassion and his ability to empathise made people trust him, an enormous asset in this job. Lidiya Akayeva would never bare her soul to _her_, and Ros knew that she couldn't have charmed the publican's wife in Eton Wick, either. Hell, she herself had been seduced by Lucas's kindness and understanding, even as she despised herself for succumbing to them. But her tolerance didn't – _couldn't _– extend to his trying to wrap her in cotton wool while they were on duty. She wasn't about to spend the rest of her career providing him with redemption for Sarah Caulfield, Maya Lahan and any other woman in his life for whom he hadn't been able to play Sir Galahad in time – not even if he _had_ saved her life the previous night.

"If Sir Roger throws a hissy fit, I'll duck," she said dryly. "All right?" The hurt in his eyes told her that her flippancy had missed its target. She snatched a quick look in both directions. The corridor was clear. "_Lucas_." She relented enough to give his hand a quick squeeze. "We agreed. Remember?"

He had the grace to look abashed. "Yeah. Sorry."

"I should think so." Ros stabbed at the lift button. "_You_ watch out for Miss Maracas 2012." The doors hissed open. She hesitated. "I haven't eaten Indian for ages. That safe house reminded me. Come over tonight, we can get a takeaway."

She carried the smile her suggestion produced down into the cavernous gloom of the garage and joined Chen Liu in the car, wondering what route to take. At this time of day, getting to Kensington could be an Olympic marathon all by itself.

"Which way, Ros?" Chen asked, as she was pondering the question.

Ros turned onto the Embankment and glared at him. "Inspector Drummond," she snapped. "You do remember what they taught you about working under cover?"

Chen cringed. "Well, yes, but I thought – when we get there -"

"No!" Ros checked her watch. "The _instant_ Ruth gave us those ID cards you became D.C. Tang and I D.I. Drummond. You think him, you breathe him, you _are_ him. If Sir Roger Pemberton gets the slightest suspicion that we are not who we say we are, then the shit will hit the fan big time and I shall personally make sure you're standing right in front of it. Understood?" He nodded mutely. "Good." She changed lanes as they passed the bottom of Battersea Bridge and indicated a right turn. "When we get there, I'll ask you to take notes, so you'll need a notepad."

Chen smiled happily, and held up a bag. "I thought of that. I brought my iPad."

Ros swallowed down an intense desire to remove her hands from the steering wheel and fasten them around his throat.

"Not an _i_Pad. A _note_pad," she said through clenched teeth. " Made of _paper_. Didn't your ancestors invent the bloody stuff? How many provincial detectives take statements on an iPad, D.C. Tang?" His face fell. "There's one in my bag." She turned away from the river and headed north for Brompton. "I'll do the talking. Your job is to take notes, and to watch him. _Discreetly_. Observation, not staring. Watch his reactions and note his movements, his eyes, his expression; any sign of nervousness, fear, or that he's lying." _God, I wish Lucas was here. _He would have done all of this automatically without needing to be instructed. This was like trying to walk a bloody tightrope with a toddler in tow. "Any questions?"

The young Chinese shook his head, and Ros had the uncomfortable impression that even if he'd had a bucketful, his fear of her reaction would probably prevent him from asking them. _Done it again, Myers._ Lucas could have done this better, too. All the junior officers enjoyed working with him – almost as much as they dreaded being sent on an operation with her. Most of them knew her reputation and admired her work in the field; few of them wanted to do it with her. _No bloody wonder. _She wasn't going to get the best out of Chen by frightening him to death.

She made an effort. "Good. You got the best marks in your intake. You'll be fine." The words sounded awkward, but Chen's face brightened visibly. With some difficulty Ros found a semi-legal parking spot, and they headed for the gracious Victorian red brick building in Collingham Gardens where Sir Roger Pemberton lived. Ros briskly announced herself to the strongly accented voice that squawked out of the intercom, and led the way up a wide spiral staircase to the second floor.

"Wow." Chen sounded impressed as he looked around him. "You ever been in a place like this before, Guv?"

_Yes. My family – my __ex__-family - used to live in one. _"Only on official business, Constable." The maid who had answered the intercom was waiting in the open doorway in full black and white regalia. Ros showed Alice Drummond's police ID, introduced D.C. Tang and followed her into the flat, where the maid relieved them of their coats and showed them into Sir Roger Pemberton's study. The man examined their credentials, scrutinised them both and then enquired: "You won't object if I confirm your visit with the Chief Constable?"

"Of course not." Ros smiled pleasantly, hoping that Ruth's briefing to the CC in Berkshire had included a full physical description of his 'officers'. She used the wait to examine both the room and Roger Pemberton. The former was familiar - _too_ familiar. It was neat, conservatively furnished, and filled with books; she could have been back in her father's own study, and the similarity made her throat tighten. There were four different photographs of Alex Pemberton, one with his parents at what looked like his graduation, one taken somewhere in a high mountain range, and two at regattas, one with a group of other rowers, the other with his father.

She smiled at the man as he hung up the phone.

"You have a lovely home, Sir Roger."

His face was stony. "And a well-protected one. Unlike my son's, it appears. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me _exactly_ what happened there yesterday?"

The intimidating arrogance rang a few bells, too. Ros's normal reaction to it would have been a snapped, sarcastic put-down. Alice Drummond nodded understandingly. "Of course, sir. And then we'd like to ask a few questions, if you wouldn't mind?"

His expression made it crystal-clear that he most emphatically _did_, but he sat down, and lit a cigarette as Ros smoothly regurgitated exactly the version that Ruth and Khalida that agreed upon – the one neatly pruned of all the information that only MI-5's 'burglars' could have known.

"A stunning display of incompetence," he said scathingly. "I assume you've spoken to this … poacher?"

"He's been interviewed, sir." Ros looked apologetic. "I'm afraid he couldn't help us much. Naturally enough, his main concern was to get away from there." She made a first gentle probe. "Obviously we're very eager to speak to your son, but we haven't been able to reach him; his mobile isn't responding, and there was no sign of him at the cottage. We assumed he might be away?"

Pemberton drew hard on his cigarette and exhaled a literal smokescreen. Ros waited for the verbal one.

"I haven't heard from Alex since the end of the Olympics, Inspector. He doesn't make a daily report to me on his whereabouts."

"No, of course not." She smiled understandingly. "But you are in regular touch with him?" When Pemberton favoured her with nothing more than a disdainful look, she prodded: "I suppose I'm asking if it's unusual for you not to speak to him for a week or so."

"Is it 'unusual' for any father not to speak to an offspring in his thirties for a week or so, Inspector?"

_No. Some of them keep it up for five years or more._ Ros watched him. "So you wouldn't have any idea how we could get in touch with him at the moment?"

Pemberton shook his head with apparent indifference. "Try his team-mates." A note of scorn crept into his voice. "Or his Facebook page. His Twitter account. Isn't that how people communicate – if that's what you call it – these days?"

Ros produced another slight smile. "We'll do that, of course. Has he a girlfriend, do you know? Might he be with her?" Pemberton's eyes narrowed. "In the course of our local enquiries a name cropped up … Dominique? No surname, I'm afraid."

The reply was contemptuous. "I'm not _au fait_ with the intimate details of my son's private life, Inspector. I imagine the tabloids could give you more, although I fail to see why you need them. I thought you were investigating a burglary, not my son."

Out of the corner of her eye, Ros saw Chen glancing towards her, and smoothly changed her tack. Pemberton was being deliberately obstructive. He clearly wasn't going to divulge anything, or admit that he was concerned about Alex's lack of communication, and she dared not arouse his suspicions that she knew about his describing him as 'missing' to his political masters.

"We are, sir. In any burglary our first move is to contact the householder and see if they have any idea _why_ they might have been the target. "

"Alex's cottage is full of trophies, for a start," Pemberton said, contemptuously.

"Yes, it looks as if one or two of them have been stolen," Ros said calmly. "His desk had been rifled, too, and we think a laptop has been taken. Perhaps other personal items as well."

That produced the first visible reaction other than contempt; just for a fraction of a second, alarm flashed across Sir Roger Pemberton's face.

"And that's _all_ you know? No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing?"

"Forensics teams are still working at the crime scene," Ros answered. "So far it looks like a standard break-in, sir … or it _would_ do, were it not for the burglars being armed, and clearly ready to use their weapons."

Sir Roger Pemberton snorted. "You surely can't be as naïve as you sound, Inspector. Thanks to incompetent policing, our newspapers are full of gun crime every day."

"Yes, sir." Ros felt it was time to hit back. "In Brixton or Birmingham, perhaps. But not in Eton Wick. I'm afraid that suggests that there may be more to this than a simple burglary - possibly an attempt to kidnap your son, possibly an attempt on his life. We do urgently need to locate Alexander, not only to interview him, but to be assured that he's safe and unharmed. " She smiled tightly as she let that sink in, then circled back to her starting point. "Do you have any idea at all where he might be – whether he perhaps intended to go away for some R&R perhaps, after the Olympics, travel, visit friends, anything of that kind?"

Sir Roger Pemberton crushed out his cigarette and got to his feet. Chen Liu made to get up too, but Ros remained resolutely seated. _We'll finish this interview when I'm good and ready._

"I have already told you, Inspector Drummond, that I do not know my son's current whereabouts, and I seriously object to your insinuation that I am withholding information from you." Pemberton's mobile buzzed and skittered a few inches across his desk. He glanced at the screen, snapped the phone off, then reached behind him and took his overcoat from a carved oak stand. Ros didn't move.

"I'm sorry to cause offence, sir. But your son is a very well-known and recognisable face at the moment, which makes this a rather worrying situation. We'd like to clear it up as soon as possible."

Pemberton glared. "Then I suggest, Inspector Drummond, that you get back to Berkshire and do something useful to that end. Now, if you'll excuse me, _I_ have work to do."

Ros held his challenging look just long enough to see him begin to look not angry, as his attitude suggested he _should_ have done, but uncomfortable. "Of course." She nodded to Chen, and the two of them rose. Chen dropped his notebook, apologised, and stooped to pick it up. As he straightened, he smiled at Pemberton and gestured towards the photograph of Alex in the mountains.

"The Andes," he said. "Lovely. Been there myself."

Pemberton tutted in disdain. "Then they clearly didn't make much of an impression on you, Constable. Those are the – _not_ the Andes."

"Oh." Chen sounded crestfallen. He peered closer. "I could have sworn - "

"Constable Tang!" As he looked round, Ros flicked her hand imperiously towards the door and followed him. "I do apologise, Sir Roger." She held out a small card with her name and telephone number written on it. "If you should hear from Alexander or manage to reach him, I'd be grateful if you could call us immediately. And the Chief Constable has asked me to assure you that we will keep you informed about the progress of the investigation."

"If there is any." Pemberton took the card and dropped it carelessly into the tray of pens and pencils on his desk. He pulled on his overcoat, picked up a briefcase, and led the way out of the room. "Good afternoon, Inspector. Victoria will show you out."

Ros extended her hand, and pointedly avoided thanking him for his assistance – if you could call it that. Under cover or not, she was only ready to take deference so far. They waited while Pemberton snapped orders to the maid, and then retrieved their coats as he walked rapidly out and down the stairs, not even bothering to glance back to assure himself that they'd left. Ros pulled her raincoat back on, watching him hurry down the spiral staircase. He was almost running. Either he had a _really_ important meeting, or something had spooked him very badly. Growing up in Jocelyn Myers's household, Ros considered herself something of an expert in the behaviour of powerful men, and she was sure that Pemberton's display of scornful arrogance hid a fear he wasn't about to share with her. _You're hiding something._

She tied the belt of her raincoat impatiently into a knot and turned to Chen, only to find him wittering away in what she presumed was Chinese to the little Asian maid. Ruth could probably have identified the dialect, and given her a quick lesson in its grammatical structure too, but it reminded Ros of the noise her cassette tapes used to make when her old machine chewed them up. The maid's twittering was punctuated with high-pitched giggles that stopped abruptly when she looked daggers at them.

"Constable Tang, _so_ sorry to interrupt your conversation - " she inclined her head towards the stairs.

"Coming, Guv." Chen didn't look abashed by her sarcasm, as she'd expected. "Just a quick chin-wag. Give me a sec?" He had deliberately exaggerated his Scouse accent, which the maid was unlikely to understand, and his eyes were gleaming in a way Ros recognised. Adam had said that _her_ eyes turned greener and glowed like a cat's in the dark when she was what he described as 'on the scent'.

"Downstairs in three minutes or I'm leaving without you," she snapped. Once outside, she phoned Harry and swiftly reported the essence of their interview with Sir Roger Pemberton. Harry grunted, but before she could go into details of her feelings about it, he said tersely: "When you get here, Ros. Quick as you can. We've got some news, and I need to brief everyone. Have you heard from Lucas?"

Ros frowned – _should I have done? - _ and checked her messages. "No, why?"

"Don't know. He's off comms; not answering his mobile." Harry sounded strained, and Ros tensed. The last time Lucas had developed a habit of going off comms, it had been the prelude to _Boliviagate_. Since then he had been so punctilious about observing every dot and comma of ops protocol that doing so again now suggested that something might have gone seriously wrong. _With a teenage gymnast? _"We'll keep trying. Get back here, Ros."

She flicked the phone off just as Chen emerged from the building and trotted down the street to join her. They got into the car and Ros pulled away. "Well?"

Chen polished his glasses on his sweater – a ritual that often preceded a bright idea, or the revelation of important information.

"That photo," he said eagerly. "The one he said wasn't the Andes."

"The one you dropped your notebook accidentally on purpose to have a good look at." Ros smiled. She too had noted Pemberton's sudden change of phrase. He had told them where it_ wasn't,_ but had quickly prevented himself telling them where it was.

"Yeah. It's the Khyber Pass," Chen said triumphantly. "My cousin went there; took a photo not fifty feet from where Pemberton's standing."

Ros didn't ask if he was sure; his voice rang with certainty. "Well done." She added thoughtfully, "He didn't seem too worried about his son for a man who cancelled a crucial political briefing because he'd 'disappeared', did he?"

The young Chinese nodded emphatically. "I think he's lying, Guv – I mean, Ros." She couldn't help laughing. "But I'm not sure what about. Either the indifference is a front, or he was lying in the first place when he said Alex had disappeared."

Ros looked at him with surprise and respect. The latter was something she hadn't considered, but now he mentioned it, it _was_ perfectly feasible.

"Why do you think he might do that?" she asked.

Chen frowned in thought. "Maybe trying to distract attention from something he knows Alex is involved in. Or … or maybe covering up for something _he's_ up to. His 'worry' about Alex's 'disappearance' could explain inconsistencies in his own behaviour?"

Ros nodded slowly. She had been right about Chen Liu; he had intelligence, and he wasn't afraid to use his imagination. Again, what he suggested was quite plausible.

"He certainly believes in attack being the best form of defence," she said dryly. "And he seemed more worried about the computer than Alex, to me."

Chen nodded. "I noticed that, too. There must be something on it that he knows about. Wonder if Callum's found anything?"

"Harry said he's got news." As she said it, Ros remembered his comments about Lucas and glanced at her phone. Still no messages. "We'll soon find out." _The sooner, the better. _She turned onto the embankment, swung into the outside lane and put her foot down.

oOoOoOo

Harry hadn't been joking about news, she thought as the meeting progressed. The most substantial – _and _the most worrying - came from Callum Reed, who announced huffily that Alex Pemberton's computer had security on it more appropriate to Fort Knox than Eton Wick. He was still trying to get into some of his files; those that were more accessible were suspiciously anodyne. At any other time the obvious dent in Callum's professional ego would have made Ros smile; not now. Pemberton shouldn't even know of the _existence_ of such programmes, never mind be using them. Benazir Ibrahim (one of Khalida's operational aliases) had received a phone call from a recently-visited asset in South London, urgently requesting a meet. She would see him the following day, taking with her some of the identikit photos of Asif Iqbal Mahmood that Callum's nagging had finally extracted from the specialists. In the meantime, she and Ruth were monitoring the movements and communications of the top five suspects on the Watchlist and their contacts.

_That's something positive, at least. _Ros reported their interview with Pemberton senior. Harry's face wrinkled in concern as he listened, but he gave an approving nod to Chen when Ros emphasised how well he had played his part.

"Good lad." He drummed his fingers restlessly on the file in front of him. " Timorous Towers notwithstanding, we need to dig deeper. I'm not convinced Sir Roger isn't into smoke and mirrors more than oil and gas."

"Harry?" It was Chen Liu. Ros made to stop him and then checked herself. Instead, she listened as Chen told Harry how he had chatted up Sir Roger Pemberton's maid and reckoned he could draw her out a bit further; she didn't like her employer much, and he thought she might spill some interesting beans to a sympathetic ear.

Harry glanced at Ros, who nodded. "OK. In character, and be careful; I don't want Sir Roger making complaints to the Berkshire force about their officer's immorality."

Chen smiled. "No problem. Strictly chow mein and _cha_, Harry."

Harry nodded abruptly. "Ruth?"

"As Khalida said, we're monitoring the watchlists, and extrapolating from incidents we've had in the past, I've got flags posted for the kind of terminology that sometimes means an alert." The analyst shook her head. "Nothing yet."

Good, Ros thought. _If_ there weren't any. If the other side had changed their terminology, their _modus operandi_ or the foot-soldiers they were intending to use, then very, very bad.

"One more thing," Ruth added, as Harry was about to move on. "Those letters you and Lucas found in Pemberton's cottage, Ros."

Ros shrugged. "Go on."

"They're all love letters. Quite … passionate ones, actually." Ruth coloured slightly as Harry's eyebrows shot up. "All to or from 'Dom', and written over the last two years or so."

_Bloody Dominique again._ "Any addresses?" Ros asked, although she was certain she knew what the answer would be. "Or a surname?"

"No," Ruth answered. Ros swore. "But posted from all over."

"Get hold of the Berkshire police," Harry ordered. "Last time I spoke to the CC their forensic teams weren't quite finished inside the cottage. They must be by now. If they haven't done it already, get them to check any fingerprints they've found against the data bases – all of them, criminal, anti-terrorist, DNA, the lot, and to look for that name. We have to find the bloody woman and talk to her." He glanced at the clock, and then to the empty chair that Lucas would normally have occupied. "Right, there's one more thing. Berkshire did have some information." He spoke directly to Ros. "They found a couple of the bullets. Two of yours. The other was from a Makarov 9 millimetre."

The silence hung thick in the air like ozone before a storm. Finally, Khalida ventured: "But Harry … the Russians' main small arms export was the Kalashnikov. They didn't sell the Makarov outside the USSR."

Harry Pearce nodded grimly. He spoke to her, but his eyes remained on Ros. "Precisely."

Ros closed her eyes for a second. She was beginning to feel like a fly trying to extricate itself from the web of a spider that was particularly talented at weaving.

"All right." She re-opened her eyes as Harry spoke again. "Callum, get back to that laptop. You'll be on overtime until you crack it. Use anyone you need to help. Ruth, get on the trail of this bloody girlfriend, and keep monitoring. Khalida too, and Khalida, if you have _any_ other sources you can use, put them on alert. Chen, I suggest you get friendly with Sir Roger's daily _pronto_, but you do it _very _carefully and you stay in touch with Ros at all times. Get down to it, all of you. Ros," as chairs scraped back. "A word, please. I - " He stopped, and Ros followed his gaze as Lucas burst from the pods and sprinted towards Harry's office, scattering startled officers who dived out of his path. Harry rapped on the conference room window, and Lucas skidded to a halt, and abruptly changed direction.

"Where the hell have you been? And why have you been off comms?" Harry erupted. Everyone else froze. Lucas, who was panting and, Ros noticed uneasily, white-faced and sweating to boot, steadied himself on the back of a chair and tried to catch his breath.

"Harry, we - " he gratefully took a cup of water from Khalida and gulped it down. "News – Akayeva. We – we've got a - a very … serious problem."

Harry Pearce gave him a long stare, then waved the others back to their seats. He gestured Lucas to the seat he had vacated and closed the doors.

"Explain."

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review! :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

Ros took advantage of the bustle to dart out to the kitchen off the Grid and bring Lucas a coffee that a thirsty junior officer had thought he was pouring for himself. His indignant protest was throttled at birth by his recognition of who was mugging him. Lucas accepted the coffee with a grateful smile that belied the worry in his eyes. Ros broke her own rules and patted his shoulder with a reassurance she didn't feel, as she resumed her seat. Harry hissed the room to silence and looked expectantly at Lucas, who took a deep breath.

"Akayeva's brother. You remember he was arrested for demonstrating against the president." He took a long swallow at his coffee. "Except according to her, it wasn't just for that. He's been an active opponent of the government for years, but his main interest is ecology and the environment … industrial pollution, waste disposal, that kind of thing."

"And how does this concern us?" Harry broke in impatiently. "Lucas, if her brother's been imprisoned unjustly, then this country is overflowing with Civil Liberties crusaders; it's _their_ headache, not ours."

"I know." Ros saw Lucas's eyes darken, and his lips drew into a hard, thin line. He hated either her or Harry inferring that he was too soft. She had once lost her temper with what she had described as his 'bloody marshmallow moralising'. It _had_ been on a very long and difficult day, but Lucas had refused point-blank to speak to her until she apologised, which, despite knowing she'd been unfair, she wouldn't do. They had communicated through increasingly exasperated third parties for two days, until Harry had forced a climb-down by threatening to assign Ros to the paper archive, Lucas to the Weirdo Line, and Ruth to run the section. "But it's the _reason, _Harry. Akayeva says he was picked up a couple of days after meeting a friend who worked at Sosny."

"What the hell is Sosny?" Harry snapped.

"It means 'pine trees' in Russian," Lucas answered. "It's a small town, about 3,000 people, fifteen kilometres outside Minsk. In Soviet times, there was a research institute there, and a nuclear reactor that was used for both civilian and military purposes."

There was a ripple of tiny, silent movements around the table as the words registered. Ros's eyes flicked to Harry; his face was expressionless. He nodded at Lucas to continue.

"This friend told Nikolai – that's Akayeva's brother – that there'd been visitors, 'unofficial' visitors, he said, to the site a week previously. He was on the night shift, had gone outside for a smoke break and saw them in a huddle with a couple of the senior engineers. He knew enough English to understand what they were saying, and he told Nikolai he was sure the черные were making arrangements to buy a quantity of enriched uranium."

"Chorniyeh?" Harry repeated irritably.

"Blacks," Ros supplied. Her mouth felt dry. "In Russia that covers a range of skin colours from the local Azeri streetsweeper right up to the Harlem Globetrotters."

"Harry." It was Ruth. "I'm sure I remember this place coming up in a connection with a similar story when I was still at GCHQ. I can't remember all the details, but I think some material went missing - "

"Go and dig them out. _Now_!" he barked when she hesitated. Ruth exited the room in a flurry of skirts. Harry turned back to Lucas. "And were they? Black."

Lucas shrugged. "She couldn't be more precise. But they weren't white, blond Europeans, Harry, not described that way. She did say …" he hesitated before going on. "Nikolai's friend said he was sure they were British from the way they spoke."

Harry made a _moue_ of doubt. "How would a Belorussian know that?"

"Apparently his parents paid for him to have special tuition in English at school; they wanted him to have better opportunities, maybe work abroad … the usual story. He had a teacher who was an exchange student from England, and he said these guys had a similar accent to him."

"_What _accent_?" _Harry demanded impatiently.

Ros could tell that Lucas didn't want to say his next few words. She waited.

"Nikolai mimicked it to her, apparently. When I asked, she said it was '_the same kind as you have when you speak English._"

Ros felt suddenly chilled. Lucas had been born and raised in Cumbria; Asif Iqbal Mahmood was originally from Bradford. To a British ear, the accents would sound distinct from one another. To an English-speaking Russian, they would probably be identical.

Callum whistled. "Shit. So do we take a guess it could have - "

Harry turned furiously on him before he could finish his sentence. "_Guess_? This is MI-5, not bloody _Mastermind_!" When Callum opened his mouth to respond, he thundered: "_Quiet!_" His gaze shot around the table like a tracer bullet. "We deal in facts - solid, verifiable _facts_. We do not speculate, jump to conclusions, or _guess_ in this Section_,_ is that crystal clear to all of you?" There was a silent, nervous nodding of heads, and Ros involuntarily moistened her lips. A sudden flare of anger like that on Harry's part almost certainly meant that he was privately doing exactly what he had rebuked Callum for - adding two and two, and making five. She shot a glance at Lucas, who was staring fixedly at his tightly clasped hands on the table in front of him. He looked up briefly, met her eyes, and then lowered his gaze again.

"Harry." Startled by the interruption, Ros looked down the table to Khalida at the far end. Either the girl had extraordinary, hidden reserves of courage, or she had a death wish. "In the very early stages of the preparations for the Games, we were tracking potential sources of material that terrorists could possibly use in order to attack them with a dirty bomb. I was in touch with Six about it, checking out some of the more obvious rogue state sources. I think Belarus was one of them."

"Check," Harry commanded. "Ask if there's a risk and if so, get the details." His forehead creased in concentration. "I seem to remember that those former Soviet states were in some sort of co-operation programme where they were being given help in the form of large brown envelopes stuffed with dollars, to encourage them to 'convert' their weapons-making factories and surrender their fissile material, spent fuel, etc. Check with him what the status of it is in Belarus." Khalida nodded, and followed Ruth out of the room. Harry turned to Callum.

"Are the Watchers still on Anatoly Baranovich?" When Callum gave an uncharacteristically subdued nod in reply, he demanded: "When was their last report?"

"Seventy-two hours ago." Callum looked apprehensive. "They're never too worried about keeping up with the paperwork."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Then go and phone them. We may need a little heart to heart with comrade Baranovich. You have fifteen minutes. Go."

"Yes, sir." For once, there wasn't a trace of mockery or impudence in Callum's voice. He hurried out of the room. Harry glanced at Chen Liu, who was sitting attentively in splendid isolation at the end of the table.

"Chen, you were going to woo Sir Roger Pemberton's maid this evening, yes?" When the young Chinese nodded, he turned to Ros. "Whether this matter turns out to be a red herring or not, we still have the Pemberton business to work on, and we can't assume our time's unlimited. This softly-softly approach could end up catching us nothing but a great deal of bloody flak when the balloon goes up."

"Maybe we ought to talk to Towers again," Ros suggested. "Get him to take the shackles off so that we can _really_ go to work on Pemberton. It won't win him or the PM any elections if something happens as a result of their political pussyfooting."

"Exactly. In the meantime," Harry looked back at Chen, "do you think you're capable of charming your way into Sir Roger's study and planting a bug or two?"

Lucas's head shot up. Ros watched Chen Liu, who nodded. Harry steepled his fingers, tapped the end of his nose, and raised his eyebrows in her direction. Imperceptibly, remembering Chen's performance that afternoon, Ros nodded. He had already planted a state-of-the-art listening device in the Chinese Olympic team quarters; it had never been spotted, and Chinese specialists at both Thames House _and_ Vauxhall Cross were still gleefully devouring its harvest.

"Then do it," Harry said decisively. "And get whatever you can out of that maid about Sir bloody Roger _and_ his son."

"What about the Home Secretary?" Lucas protested.

"What _about_ him?" Harry retorted. Ros stifled a smile. To quote Adam Carter, Harry was 'on the scent'. He would talk to William Towers again all right, but a judicious re-arranging of tenses from past to future would ensure that the politician would never know that he had given his permission for Harry to act _after_ the fact rather than before. "When Callum's done with the Watchers, Chen, get him to kit you out and run through the equipment. You don't put yourself at risk at any time, and like I said, you stay in phone touch with Ros. Understood?" He waved the young man out and closed the door behind him, leaving just himself, Ros and Lucas in the room. That, Ros knew, had been done deliberately.

"Lucas, when did all this happen?"

"Lidiya said about ten days before she left for London." There was a note of defiance in his voice. He knew what Harry was leading up to. So did Ros, and she winced inwardly at Lucas's use of the girl's Christian name; that would only enhance any doubts Harry might have about his judgement.

"And when was her brother arrested?"

"She says she got the news by phone from Minsk two days after she won her second gold in the all-around competition," Lucas shrugged angrily. "I didn't ask for the time and date to the nearest second, Harry."

"We can check." Ros stepped in quickly. Harry nodded, but he was still watching Lucas closely.

"And we'll need to find out what happened to this 'friend', too." The inverted commas around the words were audible, and Ros saw Lucas's eyes narrow in anger at what they implied in terms of doubt about the reliability of what the gymnast had told him.

"Your civil liberties crusaders would probably be able to find that out for you," he said curtly, and now it was Harry's expression that darkened at his tone. "The name you want is Kukushkin. Lev Kukushkin."

Harry scribbled it down, then studied his pen for a moment before he looked up.

"Do you believe her story's credible, Lucas?"

Lucas didn't flinch as he stared the older man down; his face was hard. "Yes, I do."

"Why?" Harry rapped.

"Because I'm a soft-hearted, susceptible pushover for any pretty woman with big eyes and a good story, " Lucas fired back. "Well, that _is_ what you're implying, isn't it?" His stormy eyes turned on Ros. "_Both _of you?"

Ros, who, as it happened, had been about to try and pour oil on troubled waters, felt a stab of what she wanted to believe was anger, but suspected was more like hurt. She quashed it, and put a restraining hand on Lucas's arm. Without even looking at her, he shook it off. "You told Callum we deal in facts. Well, here are some facts for you, Harry. One – despite being an anti-Lukashenko activist for years, her brother's not arrested until a few days after Kukushkin spoke to him. Then he's literally snatched off the street. Two – the Belorussian FSB has been turning every diplomatic and political stone they can find and to hell with the consequences, in an attempt to get Lidiya back – when you and I both know they'd normally have contented themselves with a diplomatic note, a condemnatory article in the press and closing down the British Council offices in Minsk. Three – a nuclear facility in a hostile state's been visited by people who _could_ be British citizens, and coincidentally, we've got a leading British terror suspect who could match their description on the loose somewhere in this country. And four, Ros and I were ambushed last night by at least one man armed with a weapon rarely used by anyone other than Soviet intelligence while investigating links to that same terror suspect. If you think all that's a coincidental product of my lovesick imagination then I - "

"Harry!" Ros could see the older man was reaching boiling point, and for once, she was relieved to see a breathless Ruth skitter in through the doors. "Harry, I found it!" She looked at the three tense faces in front of her, and blinked uncertainly. Ros took charge.

"Go on, Ruth. What is it?"

Ruth sat down at Harry's elbow. "It was in 2002. December, in the run-up to Christmas, maybe that's why it didn't get circulated much. There was a report in the Byelo - " she hesitated. Lucas read the paper upside down from across the table.

"Byelorussian Business News," he translated curtly.

"Yes." Ruth smiled gratefully at him; Lucas remained stone-faced. "The then KGB arrested a man for trying to sell 17 kilos of mercury. They'd received a tip-off and set up a sting operation. When they searched his home they also found 150 grams of an unspecified substance 'with a direct connection to nuclear energy'. The man used to be a worker at Sosny, and the paper speculated that both the mercury and this mysterious substance could have been highly controlled substances stolen from there."

"Not _that_ highly controlled, then," Ros grated, just as Harry murmured, "So the place has form." He looked at Lucas, who merely raised an eyebrow. "Where's Callum with that bloody Watcher report?"

"I'll get him," Lucas said, and swiftly strode out.

"Is something wrong?" Ruth asked uneasily.

"No," Harry answered sharply. "There's a great deal at stake on whether Lucas is reading this girl right, that's all. This could all be one big disinformation operation, and she could still be a plant."

_But she isn't._ Ros couldn't have explained why she was so sure. _Was_ she coming down on Lucas's side just because he was Lucas? She tuned out Ruth and Harry's murmured conversation as she considered the question. _No. _She had never let her heart rule her head with Adam, and she wasn't doing so now. She knew Lucas's weak points better than most, but there were too many coincidences for this to be either _disinformatsiya_ or Lucas North being carried away by his inner Sir Lancelot. Coincidence was a dirty word within Thames House. Instinct told her that Lucas was making the right call, and Harry, she thought, knew it too. His grilling of Lucas had not been because he doubted him; it was to confirm his own opinion.

She looked up as Lucas returned with Callum on his heels. Lucas looked grim, and Callum downright nervous. That made Ros's pulse-rate bound upwards immediately; Callum didn't do nervous.

"What is it?" she snapped.

Callum gulped audibly. "Seems they've had a manpower shortage over there for a couple of days. Stretched, what with the Games, all the bigwigs … teams being redeployed…" He trailed off at the expression on Harry's face, then seemed to conclude that if he was going to put his career on the line it was probably less painful to get it over with. "So they had to take the team off Baranovich, and now it seems he's left the country. Flew back to the Motherland this morning."

Harry Pearce gave vent to a barracks curse that made Ruth turn scarlet, and rubbed his hands over his face.

"And when _exactly_ were they thinking of letting me know that charming piece of news – in the annual departmental Christmas card?" He cut off Callum's response. "Rhetorical question. Make sure Chen knows how to use those listening devices, get him on his way, and then don't emerge from the tech suite again until you've laid bare every damned file on that computer." Callum, no doubt relieved to be escaping with all his component parts in their original places, hastily disappeared again.

"Another coincidence?" Lucas murmured from where he was standing, arms folded, against the wall.

"If you still believe in them," Harry answered. "I haven't since I lost faith in the tooth fairy, Father Christmas and the possibility of England ever winning back the Ashes." He looked round as Khalida slipped noiselessly through the doors and slid into a seat. "Something tells me you're not bringing me news that will cause me to do a happy dance round this table."

Khalida hesitated for a moment and then glanced at Ros, who nodded to her to go ahead. If there was one thing that might hamper Khalida's career prospects in Section D, it was her complete lack of a sense of irony. She might have embraced the British Crown and the British way of life, but the British sense of humour remained utterly alien.

" I checked, Harry. Belarus was on the list along with North Korea, Iran and Pakistan itself as main sources of concern."

"Well then surely," Ruth frowned, "Mahmood could have gone shopping in Pakistan?"

Harry and Ros shook their heads simultaneously.

"Pakistan's crawling with officers and assets from Six, the CIA, the FSB, you name it. Anyone and everyone even remotely involved with the Pakistani nuclear programme is under round the clock surveillance by the ISI too. That's the last place he'd have gone." Ros turned back to Khalida, who was nodding vigorous agreement. "What about the programme Harry was talking about, to secure their nuclear sites and material?"

Khalida nodded again. "The US President convened a Nuclear Security Summit two years ago. It developed a programme to secure all insufficiently protected nuclear materials worldwide within four years. Belarus wasn't invited to that one, but the government did say that it was intending to eliminate its own stock of highly enriched uranium before the review summit that's scheduled this autumn."

"And has it?" Harry demanded.

"No." Khalida shook her head. "The EU and the Americans imposed sanctions on four Belorussian state entreprises and personally on President Lukashenko after he implemented a massive crackdown at the time of the presidential elections. In retaliation the Belorussians pulled out of a joint programme to organise secure transfer of their HEU to Russia, and the American Department of Energy experts working with them were expelled last year."

There was a pregnant pause before Ruth said, "So there's no outside monitoring presence at all any longer?" Reluctantly, Khalida shook her head.

"And how much enriched uranium is lying around over there?" Harry enquired in an ominously quiet tone.

"At the time the programme was suspended, about 170 kilos, of which about 45 were enriched to 90%," Khalida answered.

In the electric silence that followed, Ros, along with everyone else, watched Harry. They had no solid_ proof _of anything – not the identity of the mysterious visitors to Sosny, not that Lidiya Akayeva's story was genuine, not of any clear connection to Alex Pemberton or his father. What they _did_ have was enough loose ends to stitch into a terrifying web if Harry chose to do so - the horrific possibility of a major terror suspect on the loose in possession of a substance capable of causing massive injury, death and destruction.

"All right." Harry looked up. "I'm going to the Home Secretary with this immediately. We may be facing the threat of a dirty bomb here, and that overrides any political imperatives. Bugger softly-softly; I want the Pembertons turned inside out. Both of them." He looked up at Lucas North. "You did a damned good job getting that lass to trust you, Lucas. Well done. Ruth, you've got your instructions." As the analyst nodded, he said, "Do you have any contacts in the human rights groups, Amnesty or anyone?" MI-5's relations with them were usually like a marriage of convenience – born of necessity, short-lived, and seriously lacking in affection.

"I do, Harry," Khalida cut in. "I know some of their people."

"Good. Then check on this Lev Kukushkin. See if you can find out what's happened to him. But keep most of your focus on your meet tomorrow; that's crucial."

Both women nodded, and left the room again. Ros knew that Ruth would probably be on the Grid until the small hours. She suspected that she and Lucas would be there with her.

"Harry?" she asked as he got to his feet. "What do you want us to do?"

"Mm?" Harry glanced over at her. "I want you two to go home and get some rest. I doubt either of you got much sleep at the five-star Taj Mahal last night. You've both done thoroughly good work today, and I need you fresh tomorrow."

"Harry," she protested, "we were fine - "

Harry snorted. "I shared quarters with Vijay Singh. _Fine._"

"What about Chen?" Ros insisted. "With all this going on, the team - "

"Rosalind!" Harry held up an imperious hand. "That is why we have a _team._ Not a one-man – or woman – band. Chen will be in touch with you by phone as ordered. Go home, eat and get some rest. Both of you," looking fiercely at Lucas. "I don't care _whose_ home, just go. I'm going to see Towers and frighten him into letting us do what we're paid for, and tomorrow we can go all out. If I need either of you before then, you'll be red-flashed. Good work. Goodnight."

He shook Lucas's hand, and gave Ros an affectionate pat between the shoulder blades in a way that made her wonder if he wasn't also going to offer her a tidbit and to take her for a walk. Both murmured something appropriately polite and headed for the garage. Ros's head was aching, and her ribs felt sore. Lucas looked very tired, too. _Maybe Harry has a point._ Then she recalled that they hadn't eaten more than a hurried snack for twenty-four hours, either.

"You still on for that Indian?" she asked. He hesitated. "You can't just feed on righteous anger, Lucas."

He gave a weary smile and kissed her cheek. "Yeah, OK. Yours?"

"Mine." Ros insisted on driving, and when they reached the Indian restaurant near her flat, she hopped out to buy supper and left him dozing in the passenger seat. The enticing aromas from the carrier bag she brought back woke him, and he mumbled a sheepish apology.

"Basic human right to doze off." Ros led the way into her flat. "Ask any soft, susceptible pushover." Lucas's eyes flashed, but then he gave a wry, twisted smile, and started helping her to dish up the food. "He does trust you, Lucas. It's just that -"

" - I've made stupid mistakes before," Lucas finished.

"And Harry hasn't?" Ros retorted. "Adam told me he once took classified documents home and had them stolen." Lucas's eyes widened. "It could have caused a major diplomatic scandal; he almost had to resign over it. And what about me?"

"You?" Lucas echoed blankly.

"God, you _must_ be tired." Ros poured both of them a glass of wine. "My father … Yalta - should I go on? Look," as they started to eat, " would Harry be planning a head-on confrontation with Towers on the basis of your information if he didn't trust your judgement? Christ, it's lucky he sent you to little Miss Maracas and not me. What did I say – something about '_wasting officers' time_', wasn't it?"

That brought a real smile. "Well, at least you're not a soft, susceptible pushover." He reached for the plate of rice. "Just a hard-headed know-it-all."

_Good._ _Safely back in banter country. _She pulled a face at him. "I wish I knew it all about the bloody Pembertons. I swear Sir Roger's as twisted as a python in a U-bend, but for the life of me, I can't work out _why. _What the hell is the connection between them and Mahmood, or even them and the Belorussians? "

They talked over the operation as they steadily cleared the plates; when they were all empty, Lucas looked at them ironically.

"No need to wash up," he observed.

Ros laughed. "No." She hesitated. "You are staying?" _Please._ The word remained unuttered.

"Yep." As she started collecting the plates, he slid his arms round her waist and nibbled her ear. "Time for dessert."

Ros awoke as dawn broke, with her mind refusing to emulate the relaxation of her body, which was curled in the comfortable warmth of Lucas's embrace. He was fast asleep, snoring softly into the nape of her neck. Ros gazed idly at the inked artistry snaking down his torso. She had initially hated his tattoos, unable to see them as anything but reminders of his ordeal in Russia. Lucas, however, had a curious affection for them, and gradually his attitude had won her over, too; she found it hard now to imagine his body without them.

There was a draught chilling the base of her spine where Lucas had appropriated more than his fair share of the duvet, and she reached to pull it back. He mumbled a half-awake protest.

"Mm … wha 's matter?"

"Nothing." Ros wriggled closer to him and kissed the beak of a tattooed eagle. "Go back to sleep." She willed her mind to stop running the Pemberton treadmill and do likewise. With the help of Lucas's rhythmic snores her eyes started to close again.

That was when the telephone rang.

oOoOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

"Lucas. Phone." When he merely grunted discontentedly in response to her push at his shoulder, Ros stretched across him to where the mobile was hopping around the bedside table, but she couldn't reach it. "_Lucas_!" She pummelled his chest with both fists. "Are you dead, or something?" Finally, he blinked his eyes open. "_Phone!_"

"Uh." At last he rolled aside, tipping her unceremoniously off his body in the process. "Yeah … Lucas North." He flopped onto his back, looking blearily at the ceiling as he held the phone to his ear. Suddenly, his eyes snapped wide open. "Who? Oh … oh, yeah. Sorry. Hang on." He held the phone out to Ros, and mouthed '_Callum_'.

_Shit._ Ros snatched it, and cast him a filthy look. If he'd been even halfway _compos mentis_ he would have realised he was answering _her_ phone and not his own. Harry had never asked, and Ros would never have given him an answer even if he had, but nonetheless, she was pretty sure that their boss knew that she and Lucas occasionally shared a bed. Because she trusted him to keep the knowledge to himself, Ros didn't mind that, but the fact that Callum Reed, cocky little sod that he was, would now be aware of it too, was enough to poison her day before it had even started.

"Myers," she snapped, shoving a pillow behind her and propping herself up against it. She yanked the duvet up around herself, exposing Lucas to the chill air of the bedroom in the process. He looked reproachfully round at her, then sighed, sat up and made a drinking gesture with one hand. When Ros nodded, he reluctantly got up and slouched drowsily to the door, folding his arms against the morning cold. "What is it?"

She had expected some knowing _double entendre_ from the tech specialist, but it sounded as if he was still intimidated by the strip Harry had torn off him the day before. She listened intently as he explained that he had finally managed to get access to most of Alex Pemberton's computer.

"Some of it's corrupted," he said – _almost_ apologetically, Ros thought. "But there's enough to work on. I thought you'd want to know immediately."

"Good work," she said tersely. "What does Harry say?"

"Haven't been able to tell him yet," Callum answered. "He and Ruth have got a breakfast meeting with the Home Sec. Harry couldn't see him yesterday evening; he had some big cheese reception or something to attend."

_Breakfast meeting?_ Ros took the phone from her ear and looked at the screen. _Eight-thirty_! She sprang out of bed, went to the window and drew back the curtains. _Bloody hell._ No wonder she'd thought it was so early; rain was sweeping the streets, which were draped in a murky grey shroud of pot-bellied clouds. Suddenly, she realised she was standing there stark naked. '_MI-5 officers shall at all times be aware of the need to preserve their anonymity, and to that end, to conduct themselves with discretion and sobriety in public'. _Hurriedly, she whipped the curtain closed again, pulled her robe from a hook behind the door, and then stopped midway into shrugging it on. "Did you say Ruth?" When Callum confirmed it, she said testily, "What the hell is she tagging along for; does she think he can't find the Home Office on his own?"

"Dunno." She could see Callum shrugging – and probably smirking as well. "She offered to go. Wanted to hold his hand, I suppose."

_Oh, did she. _Ros knotted her belt with a vicious tug. She had never got round to reprimanding Ruth for doing an _Anschluss_ on the staffing rosters. This time, Harry's little turtle dove was going to get her wings well and truly clipped.

"OK. I'm on my way." She shoved the phone into her pocket and ran downstairs. Lucas was preparing breakfast in the kitchen; with her raincoat incongruously draped over his shoulders, he looked like a grounded bat.

"Sorry," he said. "It's cold. What's up?"

Ros relayed Callum's news as they ate. She didn't usually take more than a cup of coffee in the morning, but Lucas insisted on eating _something_, and as he had once teasingly pointed out, she always worked up a healthy appetite when he stayed over. She wondered if it was worth retaliating that for a man who still, even now, woke from nightmares at least once a month and could have bouts of insomnia lasting for several days, he seemed not so much to sleep as to slide into semi-coma whenever they shared a bed. _At least in that way, we seem to be good for each other. _She decided to let him off … this time.

"Well, that's progress of a sort," Lucas said, as they returned upstairs. "Between the computer and Chen's bug, we might get something valuable. Let's hope Harry can convince Towers to let us use it."

"I'm sure Pollyanna will manage that," Ros said sourly, as she headed for the shower. "By the time she's finished playing the Glad Game with him, he'll probably be declaring Dirty Bomb Day a sodding public holiday. Come on, I want to talk to Khalida before she goes to that meet. Let's get moving. You're driving."

Conditions on the roads were horrendous, but Lucas was by far the best driver Ros had ever met, and his photographic memory retained the details of five alternative routes using back streets to Milbank. When they walked into the Grid, she noticed that Harry's office was empty, and there was no sign of the analyst, either. She crossed to Khalida's desk.

"Where's Harry?"

"Still at his meeting, I think." Khalida was dressed particularly conservatively today, in a tight black headscarf, loose sweater and skirt almost down to her ankles. "Callum's studying the computer if you'd like to see it?"

Ros nodded to Lucas. "Go on; I'll be there in a minute." She perched on the edge of the desk. "Where are you meeting … what's his name?"

"Samakab Aideed," Khalida answered. "McDonalds in Oxford Street."

Ros nodded thoughtfully. "And is he, do you think? A supporter of right?"

Khalida's eyes widened. "You speak Somali?"

"I was born in Mogadishu." Ros glanced up as Harry and Ruth stepped out of the pods like synchronised clockwork figures. "Picked it up from the local staff. Our maid used to call me Awrala." When Khalida looked quizzical, she said wryly, "Without blemish. Her eyesight wasn't very good. Do you trust him?"

Khalida shrugged. "Not at all. I think it would be very foolish to do so, Ros. But his information has always been reliable - so far. And we need to make a breakthrough soon, no? Time is running."

Ros nodded grimly. _Too true. _"Be careful and be very alert for surveillance. No short cuts, no risk-taking. And phone in as soon as you're clear. Understood?"

The young woman nodded. Ros slid off the desk and set off in pursuit of Harry and Ruth, who had headed for his office. Officially, she had long since come to terms with Jo Portman's death. If _really_ pushed, she might, reluctantly, have admitted that she had never since been able to send a female officer into the field without a nauseating apprehension churning deep in her guts.

"Ros." Harry smiled; the smile looked reasonably genuine, and suggested that he had at least not lost the Softly Softly Skirmish.

"Morning," she said briskly, careful to include Ruth in the greeting. "How'd it go?"

"Partial victory," Harry said dryly. "He's agreed that we can engage in surveillance of Sir Roger – discreet, arms-length, non-intrusive surveillance."

Ros smiled tightly. "I believe Callum gave Chen a particularly non-intrusive sort of bug. What's the other part?"

The smile slid off Harry's face. "A general alert to the Met, Special Branch, the Diplomatic Protection Unit and all Chief Constables about the suspected presence of Asif Iqbal Mahmood on UK territory, and distribution to them of those identikit photographs we made up. We can step up surveillance of all his previously identified contacts, and his family." He rolled his eyes. "As if we weren't already. I may '_pursue discreet enquiries_' with Customs as regards any suspect traces of whisper, whisper, ura-know-what, and _if_ the threat becomes more 'tangible or immediate' - his words, not mine – then he'll advise the PM to convene COBRA."

_So far so good _… _but not far enough_. "What about the Belarus aspect?"

"He said that _if_ we can provide specific, rather than circumstantial evidence of their link to a potential act of terrorism, he'll consider informing the Foreign Office and ask their agreement to call in the ambassador and seek clarification." Ros swore, and Harry snorted. "Oh, and he wants no other outside agencies involved. He particularly specified the Cousins. And there's still to be no suggestion _whatsoever -_ 'whatsoever' in italics – that Alex Pemberton is involved in this unless we can produce irrefutable proof that he is."

_Typical politician,_ Ros thought. Giving with one hand as he took away with the other, and doing as delicate a balancing act on the fence as any gymnast could do on a four-inch beam.

"We might be able to do that." She told Harry about Callum's success with the rower's computer, and his face brightened.

"Have you seen the results?" Ros shook her head. "So what are we waiting for?"

He turned and strode out of the door. Ruth smiled at Ros and turned to follow him.

"Ruth!" As the analyst looked back, Ros enquired: "How much success have you had putting a face to Dominique?"

Ruth's fingers twisted in the necklace she was wearing. "Not as much as I'd like. Berkshire's forensics teams found different sets of fingerprints in the cottage, but so far there's no match in any of the databases. I'll keep at it." Her eyes strayed to the door through which Harry could be seen disappearing into the tech suite.

"What about the letters?" Ros asked. She could tell Ruth was itching to follow him and resume her usual position of faithful, adoring puppy-dog, but first she was going to understand _exactly_ what their respective positions in the hierarchy of the Grid were.

Ruth shook her head. "I've been reading through them." She coloured slightly, and Ros kept her amusement at the thought of Ruth ploughing through someone else's passionate correspondence off her face. "Plus working on his Facebook page, cross-referencing all his 'friends' to try and come up with anyone who may have crossed our radar before."

"And?" Ros prompted.

Two frown lines appeared between the analyst's eyes at her persistence. "Ros, do you have any idea how long that kind of work takes? It's like a snowflake, every branch splits off into another three or four or five! _And_ I'm monitoring the Watchlist and the web. I can't work miracles; analysis takes time!"

"Believe me, I understand," Ros agreed, with a sympathetic sigh that was so transparently insincere that Ruth bristled. "But we do need your input, and since we've lost a couple of hours this morning, we'd better get back to it." Ruth's expression indicated only too clearly that she knew 'we' meant 'you'. Ros slipped past her and delivered her final thrust. "I'll see if I can re-arrange the rosters and get you some extra help. Thanks, Ruth."

_That should do it._ Ruth was a very intelligent woman. She would have no trouble reading the personal message underlying her colleague's seemingly strictly professional comments, and Ros had made them with a polite smile, so there was nothing that would justify Ruth running to Harry with tales of bullying. _Pollyanna versus the Poison Pygmy?_ _No contest_. Satisfied that her point was made, Ros pushed open the door to the tech suite where Harry and Lucas were leaning over Callum and Alex Pemberton's laptop like a pair of hungry vultures. Harry lifted his gaze.

"Ros." He beckoned her in. "Take a look at this."

oOoOoOo

"Look," Lucas said, pacing back and forth across the office despite Ros having twice rapped at him to sit down. "I agree, there are a lot of Asians in those photographs. But all they show is Pemberton partying, Ros. Fairly wild, yes, but just partying."

She shook her head. She, Lucas, Harry and Callum had spent almost an hour squinting at and squabbling over the contents of Alex Pemberton's laptop, and she and Lucas were _still_ trying to dissect what they meant. "It _can't _be 'all,' Lucas. Not enough. How many elite sportsmen have been caught drunk, spaced out or with their pants down at some time or another? The tabloids go into overdrive for a week, and then everyone forgets it. There_ has_ to be something more. I told you what Chen said about that photo in Sir Roger's place. Taken at the Khyber Pass, he said. By the looks of these, he was about the same age – I'd say they were five … six years old?"

Lucas nodded. "You think that's where they were taken, too? So, are we thinking he's gone native? With _his_ background?" He grimaced. "Or was he snared … blackmailed somehow?"

"Either." Ros churned her hand through her hair in frustration. "He wouldn't be the first upper-crust Oxford man to go over to the other side. But I'd think entrapment's more likely. Did he sleep with the wrong girl? I don't know – local warlord's niece, imam's daughter? That area's always been a breeding ground for fanatics and extremists."

"Mm." Lucas reached the end of the office and turned back again. "Drugs, maybe?"

"Maybe. Or arms trading across the sodding border." Ros drummed her fingers angrily on the old-fashioned blotting pad that still adorned Harry's desk, and glanced at her watch. "Those e-mails – well, the parts of them Callum managed to decipher – they certainly sounded like threats. But _why_? And from whom? Mahmood? The Pakistani authorities? Some local family out for blood revenge? With nothing but bloody snippets - "

"At least Cal's got something to work on now. If he can enhance those pictures he can run them through face recognition. And some of the e-mails in Urdu were in better condition," Lucas said.

"Pashto," Ros swivelled the chair from side to side and blew out a deep breath.

"Even better." Lucas ran his hand around his chin thoughtfully. "Khalida can have a look at them when she gets back."

"Yes, and where the hell _is_ she?" Ros checked her watch again. "Has she reported in?"

"She'll be back," Lucas said soothingly. "Give her time, Ros, it's fine."

"It's bloody dangerous, that's what it is!" Ros rubbed her chest and caught Lucas's frown. "I'm _all right_. I should have sent back-up with her. Go and check, will you, see if she's been in contact."

Lucas muttered something about her worrying too much, but he went. Ros rested her head on her hands and closed her eyes for a second, then hastily re-opened them and sat up straight again, remembering that she hadn't closed the blinds, and consequently, her every move was visible to her subordinates. Harry had gone to consult his counterpart at Vauxhall Cross, where Ros's presence didn't always elicit a co-operative response, leaving her in charge on the Grid. Each time he did so, Ros wondered how on earth he could do any serious work at all when he was permanently enthroned as Guppy-in-Chief in this goldfish bowl of an office.

_He'd better learn something useful._ Pemberton's laptop certainly seemed to indicate that the rower had been being blackmailed - possibly, in Pakistan – possibly, but still there was no connection with Belorussian uranium or Asif Iqbal Mahmood, at least not one obvious enough to satisfy William Towers. They needed a name or a place on which they could focus. At the moment all they had were separate pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't fit together. _We're missing something. Somewhere, there's a link._

Lucas re-entered. "Nothing, Ros. Not yet. Was she wired?"

"Of course not!" Ros exploded. "I was trying to keep her _safe, _not set her up as a target on a shooting range." She saw Lucas flinch and knew that he had understood the reason for her anxiety. Both of them jumped as Harry's phone rang, and Ros snatched it up.

"Myers. No, he isn't. Rosalind Myers, section chief. What? Oh, for God's sake. Can't you – all right. All_ right._ I'll send someone down." She slammed the instrument back onto its stand. "Walk-in. Have you seen Chen?" When Lucas shook his head she said, "Go and ask Ruth, will you? Probably another old granny with a hang-up about brown-skinned men with beards, but just in case."

"She won't be happy," Lucas said hesitantly.

"My heart breaks," Ros snapped. "Do _you_ want the job?" Her lips curved in a twisted smile as his head shook emphatically. "Thought not." Walk-ins were a time-wasting menace, and everyone dreaded them. But once in a while – a very _long_ while – one would bring valuable information, so they had to be welcomed. They also had to be dealt with tactfully and with patience, which was why Ruth often got the job. "Then send her." She got up, went to the percolator sitting on the ledge at the back of the office, and was pouring two cups of coffee when Lucas spoke.

"Ros." He was staring out into the Grid. He pointed. "Khalida's back."

Ros span round, and joined him at the window. "What the - " She barely recognised her own officer. Khalida was wearing jeans and a striped sweater, and a mass of thick black, wavy hair that most of her colleagues had never seen was tumbling down below her shoulders. Abandoning the coffee, Ros hurried out of the office with Lucas in hot pursuit. "Khalida!" The younger woman turned and, to Ros's relief, gave a smile, admittedly a rather tense one.

"Are you all right?" Ros demanded. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing, I am fine," Khalida said firmly, but she looked a little shaky. Ros poured her some water from the nearby cooler, and Lucas swiftly helped her to a seat.

"What kind of nothing?" he asked.

Khalida drank the water gratefully. "I met Samakab. We were clean; I did several dry runs before I joined him, and we were clean. I am sure of it." Ros nodded. The young woman's early life had inculcated in her a level of caution and suspicion that no amount of MI-5 training could ever have matched. "But when I left him I realised that I was being followed."

"Do you know by whom?" Ros asked.

"No. But soon we can check." Khalida's usually grave face cracked into a dazzling, triumphant smile, and she held up her phone. "I took a picture. Not David Bailey, but I think it will do."

"Well done," Ros said approvingly. "Did Samakab tell you anything useful?"

"I think so." Khalida nodded. "He said something 'heavy' is going on at his mosque."

"Which is?" Lucas interjected. When Khalida answered 'Brixton' he screwed up his face in thought. "Is that a particular thorn in our side?"

Khalida glanced at Ros. "Perhaps more like a little prickle from time to time?" Ros nodded agreement. "But Aideed is very frightened. Usually he is … I would say arrogant. As if he is doing us a favour. Not this time. He said in the last week they have been visited by a brother 'from abroad'. That is what they are told. And this brother has been talking – not preaching to all, as he says sometimes happens, but to a select few young men. Including him."

"Preaching - ?" Ros asked, in a voice that every officer on the Grid knew meant danger.

Khalida's eyes filled with the contempt that radiated from her whenever the subject of Islamic radicalism cropped up. "The need to fight back. The need to defend the _purity of Islam._" If she could have spat and done it courteously, Ros thought, she would have done.

"Did you show him the pictures?" she asked. Khalida nodded, and reached into the small backpack she had been carrying. "This one. He was not sure, but he said perhaps this one." She handed Ros the identikit that showed Asif Iqbal Mahmood with close-cropped hair and clean-shaven. "He claims this brother wears glasses too, sometimes. And he said he does not believe he comes from abroad."

"Local?" Lucas asked.

"No." Khalida tossed the other photographs onto her desk in disgust. "He speaks like the people in Emmerdale, but he's a 'dirty Paki'." She hissed the two last words. "That is how _he_ put it."

For a second no-one said anything, and Ros felt almost crushed by the weight of their expectant silence. _Belarus bis._ But there were thousands of 'Pakis' with Yorkshire accents. It could be nothing. She didn't _have_ to hit the alarm bell. She could temporise.

_And possibly cause untold damage. _She looked over her shoulder towards Harry's office. Still empty. _No handing the decision further up the line then_, _Ros_.

She turned to Lucas. "Call Harry - now. And get Ruth down to that bloody walk-in." As Lucas moved away, she said to Khalida: "How did you dodge your shadow?"

The young woman smiled with satisfaction. "I went into Debenhams - into the ladies' underwear department. No so-called Islamic radical would willingly expose himself to temptation in such a licentious place." Ros smiled. Khalida wasn't given to smugness, but she sounded thoroughly pleased with herself now. "I took some things to try on, and in the changing rooms I changed into these spare clothes. I walked straight past him holding a lace bra, matching knickers and a very _haram_ frilly nightie. He did not give me a second look."

Across the Grid, Ros saw Ruth heading for the pods with a face like thunder. Lucas was coming back, chewing on a Kit-Kat. She returned her attention to Khalida.

"Well done. Really good work." Khalida's dusky skin turned slightly pink. "Check your picture against the Watchlist. If you get an identification, cross-check it for any links whatsoever to Mahmood or any of his past associates. Then bring it straight to me. Harry won't want any delay." Apart from anything else, it sounded as if their informer was in imminent danger of either coming under suspicion, or worse, being unmasked. Ros had little concern for informers beyond their usefulness to the Service, but if Mahmood _was_ in some way linked to Aideed's mosque in Brixton she didn't want him spooked by fears of an infiltrator. She jerked her head at Lucas and they headed back to the office.

"Did you reach him?" Ros asked.

"Left a message," Lucas answered. "She's bloody good," he added, glancing back at Khalida.

"Yep. And if she's right and Aideed's on the level we need to move fast." As they reached the door Ros realised that a junior officer had followed them and was hovering nervously.

"_What_?" she snarled at him. He turned white, but bravely stood his ground.

"It's Miss Evershed. On the phone." He took an involuntary step back at the scowl that appeared on Ros's face, and held the phone out at arm's length. "She says it's urgent."

Ros whipped the instrument from his hand, and flicked on the loudspeaker so that Lucas could hear. "Ruth, for God's sake, what is it? I don't have time for another worried patriot who thinks a crack CSS sleeper unit's hijacked his local Chinese takeaway."

"Information." Ruth's voice matched her own in irritability. "_If_ you're interested. Information about Alexander Pemberton."

Lucas almost choked on his Kit-Kat, and for a moment Ros stared in utter disbelief at the phone.

"Stay there," she said at last. "I'm coming."

With Lucas close behind, she dashed for the pods. Neither of them had the patience to wait for the lifts; instead, they took the stairs two by two, and ran for the small room near the main entrance where the vigilant and usually mildly paranoid citizens known as 'walk-ins' were courteously ushered to make their reports. Ros, to her fury, was breathing heavily when they got there, and when Lucas would have knocked, she gestured to him to wait while she gave her labouring respiratory system a fix of salbutamol. Then she nodded.

Ruth opened the door and looked from one to the other. "Come in." She walked in, and when she moved aside, Ros saw a man a few years younger than her perched tensely on the edge of the sofa. He was well-dressed, strikingly handsome, and didn't fit the profile of your average Thames House 'walk-in' at all. She turned enquiringly to Ruth.

"This is Mr Hastings," the analyst said. She met Ros's eyes; there was a victorious gleam in her own. "Meet Dominique."

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review! :)_


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

"Hello." He got to his feet. "Dominic Hastings."

Ros shook his extended hand. "Miriam Spencer. This," she turned to Lucas, who had stopped as abruptly as if he had hit a wall on entering the room, "is Liam Newton."

"Pleased to meet you." The courtesies seemed to reassure him. _He probably expected a hood over his head and pliers on his nails._He jumped like a startled rabbit as his mobile bleeped, and looked even more alarmed when Ros, with a polite smile, held out her hand.

"I'm afraid security should have removed that from you, Mr Hastings. We'll return it when you leave." He reluctantly surrendered it and she handed it to Ruth. "Have it taken care of please, Eliza. And if you could alert the chief?"

The expression in Ruth's eyes told her that she had translated the words correctly into '_check everything on it_'. She nodded and left the room.

"So." Ros smiled. "How can we help you?"

"It's about Alex," Hastings said.

"Alex Pemberton," Ros clarified. "The rower?"

"Yes. Something's wrong; I'm sure of it. I haven't been able to reach him for days."

Lucas leaned against the wall and folded his arms. "Then surely the normal thing to do would be to go to the police?"

Hastings shook his head. "I can't. It will get out."

Lucas raised his eyebrows invitingly at the '_it_', but Dominic Hastings declined to bite. "Still, it seems a little bit excessive to bring a missing persons report to us, Mr Hastings. Why come to MI-5?"

Neither of them expected the simple bluntness of his reply.

"Because Alex told me to. If anything happened."

Lucas glanced at her, and Ros stepped in. "Mr Hastings, would you come with us, please?"

She led the way to the lifts. Generally speaking, the interview rooms in Thames House were spartan and intimidating. Ruth had once tentatively suggested to Harry that perhaps they could be made less so, to which he had responded irritably that they weren't running a bloody Lyons Corner House and that most of their interviewees were _meant _to feel intimidated. However, after several panicked walk-ins had rapidly become walk-outs, he had arranged for a junk room where Ros had once interrogated Lucas to be equipped with a rug, coffee table, and a few comfortable chairs so that it was a little more like a café and a little less like a cell. Ros asked Lucas to bring coffee there. The room had a few features that wouldn't be found in most cafes, including recording devices that a brief reminder to Lucas to 'tell Cal not to forget the sugar' had ensured that Callum would now have activated.

"So, Mr Hastings." Ros settled herself in a chair opposite him and produced her warmest smile. "Shall we start at the beginning? Your full name, date of birth and address, please?"

"Dominic Peter Hastings. 25th of September 1980, and I live at 28 Rochdale Gardens in Richmond, Miss Spencer."

"Miriam will do fine." They both glanced round as the door opened and Lucas backed in with a tray. Harry Pearce followed him in, and took a seat against the wall. He gave Ros a discreet thumbs-up. Lucas poured coffee for all of them, and Ros waited until Hastings had taken a mouthful, noticing, with wry amusement, that he winced at the taste of it.

"Could you explain to us how you're acquainted with Alexander Pemberton?" she asked.

He put the cup down with a slightly incredulous look - partly, Ros thought, at her question, and partly at what the security services were apparently capable of doing to an innocent coffee bean.

"Well yes, but I would have thought – surely it's what's happened to Alex that's important!"

"We don't know if anything _has_ happened to Alex yet," Lucas pointed out.

"And I'm sure you'll appreciate," Ros added smoothly, "that while the Service is immensely grateful for the information it receives, it does need to check sources and reliability out carefully."

"Yes. Of course." Hastings cleared his throat. "Alex and I know each other from Oxford - the Debating Society, actually. After I graduated I set up my own PR agency. Gradually moved into sports management. Alex is one of the sportsmen I represent."

Ros added some sugar to her coffee; he was right, it was putrid.

"I see. So you're colleagues – and friends." She wouldn't let him know they were already aware of _exactly _what his relationship with the missing rower was.

"No, Alex and I are a couple." Hastings' voice was surprisingly firm. Ros, who had expected at least a wriggle of embarrassment, was impressed. "We have been for several years."

"You live together, then?" Lucas suggested. Like her, he must be remembering Pemberton's cottage and their surprise at how feminine some of the décor had seemed.

Hastings's lips tightened. "Not permanently, no."

"Why not?" Ros enquired.

Dominic Hastings was beginning to look impatient. "Because - look, I came here to give you information, not to undergo the bloody third degree!"

Ros kept the smile on her face, and resisted the temptation to tell him that she was only getting warmed up. "It's just red-tape, sir, procedures that have to be followed. Bear with us."

Hastings sighed. "For the obvious reason. Because Alex's father doesn't approve of his son being gay."

"He's aware of it, then," Lucas observed.

Hastings shot him a withering look. "Of _course_ he is. He created enough fuss about it when he found out while Alex was at Eton."

"You were at Eton too?"

"No, but Alex told me. His father - well …" he trailed off.

"Tried to knock it out of him?" Ros suggested quietly.

Hastings looked uncomfortable. "More or less." He shrugged. "_Chassez la nature, elle revient au galop._"

"So he doesn't know about you and Alex."

Hastings shook his head vigorously. "God, no. Alex made me swear we'd never tell anyone. He's the archetypal British hero. You know what the press call him – Alexander the Great. Not to mention his female fans … _and_ the bloody Twitterati! Can you imagine their reaction?"

_And his father's._ Ros glanced across at Harry, whose complexion had deepened to a familiar shade of cranberry. Sir Roger Pemberton hadn't breathed a word about Alex's homosexuality when she had interviewed him. Clearly, keeping secrets was a skill that ran in the family.

"When were you last in contact with Alexander?"

Dominic Hastings thought for a moment. "During the Games," he said at last. "Two days before the closing ceremony."

"Did he seem his usual self?" Ros asked. "Under stress, anxious? Afraid?"

"No. Just very tired. It wasn't only the pressure of competition; he'd had to do so many interviews, TV appearances, press conferences. All the medallists did – everyone wanted a piece of them."

"Then why," Lucas said reasonably, "are you assuming that something was wrong? Might he not just have decided to take himself off for a few days rest?" Hastings shook his head emphatically. "Why so sure?"

"Because it was my birthday two days after the end of the Games. We were planning to go away for the long weekend. Alex would _never _have missed that."

Lucas's mobile chimed softly into the momentary pause. He answered it, then got up and left the room. Ros waited until the door was closed, and looked towards Harry, who got up and approached them.

"Mr Hastings." He removed a sheet of paper and his fountain pen from his inside pocket. "We need you to sign this." As the younger man scanned it, he added, "Should you reveal anything of this interview to a third party, you render yourself liable to prosecution under the Official Secrets Act."

Dominic looked at him for a moment, and then scribbled a signature. Harry retrieved the form, then sat down in the place Lucas had vacated. "Thank you. Now, you and Alexander Pemberton are intimate. I therefore assume you are – open - with each other." He watched the young man intently; Ros watched him.

"Of course we are." When Harry's expression didn't change, Hastings added with feeling," In a position like ours, you aren't really part of wider society. Not even in these so-called liberal times. You never really fit, not even – well, _especially -_ if you're in a prominent position like Alex. Because you can't be honest – not safely, anyway. We don't even use our regular phones. Public landlines or pay as you go, to avoid hacking." That, Ros thought grimly, would explain why there had been no trace of communication from any 'Dominique' on the iPhone she and Lucas had lifted from Pemberton's cottage. "So yes, Alex and I are open with each other. Completely. Neither of us have anyone else we can safely be open with." He sighed. "I realise that's difficult for people like you to understand."

_Actually, you've just described the position of your average MI-5 officer to a T, _Ros thought. From Harry's slightly twisted smile, she suspected that he was thinking the same thing.

"So you knew Alex's views and opinions." Another nod. "Mr Hastings, has he ever shown any interest in, or sympathy for, extremist views?"

Dominic Hastings's chiselled jaw dropped open. "_Extremist? _Wh – what kind of extremist? Fascist … anarchist, what?_"_

"In this particular case, Islamist," Harry said.

The younger man gawped at him. "Alex? Are you _insane_, Mr - "

"Farmer," Harry said helpfully. "Giles Farmer."

"And this is the Perilous Realm, I suppose." Abruptly, Hastings got up. "If you are honestly suggesting that Alex Pemberton has _any_ affiliation to Islamic terrorism, then maybe you ought to go and look for other dragons to slay, because that is the most utter, unadulterated _crap_ I have ever heard in my life."

"Sit down, Mr Hastings." Now Ros was on her feet too. He fired a contemptuous look at her and turned on his heel.

"_Sit down!"_ Harry roared. "_Now_. You leave this building when we allow you to do so and that won't be until you've answered every question to our full satisfaction." He waited until Hastings resumed his seat, face set and eyes still alight with rage. "We have evidence that Alex Pemberton visited Pakistan some years ago. Were you with him? Do you know anything at all about that trip?"

"Why on _earth_ would I set foot in a place like Pakistan?" The disdain dissolved as he met the impassive stares of the two MI-5 officers. If silence could be described as loud, Ros thought, this one would be deafening. Finally, Dominic Hastings cracked under its pressure. "How the hell is this going to help find Alex?"

"That's for us to work out," Ros answered. "Pakistan?"

Hastings picked up his coffee cup, then replaced it, toyed with the spoon, and finally said:

"Sydney, in 2000 - his first Olympics. He'd only just moved into seniors. Didn't get past the heats, not then. He'd just graduated from uni, so after the Games he took some time off, took the long route home through Asia. Malaysia, India …"

"Pakistan?" Ros prompted again.

"Yeah. I remember him telling me he did the pukka colonial bit … Lahore, Saiful Muluk, the Khyber Pass." Hastings shook his head as her eyes narrowed. "Look, I don't know what you're getting at, but you're about as far off the wall as you could be. Alex has no time for all that bullshit." Again his anger flared. "What the hell do you suspect him of? For God's sake, your average Islamic nutcase would have people like us down there in the dust with the dogs! Do you even _know_ what the penalty for homosexuality is out there?" He shook his head. "God, this is crazy. You can't _possibly_ believe he's mixed up with them!"

"His involvement needn't necessarily be voluntary," Ros said quietly.

"You mean – you think – " He paled as the shock took hold. "God, _surely_ not! I never even considered_ them – _when I heard about the burglary I was afraid he'd been kidnapped to extort money, but … no, not this, not spies and – and James Bond cloak and dagger!"

"This is not James Bond, Mr Hastings." Harry's eyes were hard. "This is a possible threat to national security we're talking about. Terrorism."

Just then, the door clicked open and Lucas beckoned to Ros. She murmured an apology and joined him.

"Khalida got news from Amnesty," he said. "Lev Kukushkin was killed in a hit-and-run in Minsk last week."

_Shit. How bloody convenient._ Ros bit her lip. That neatly confirmed Lidiya Akayeva's story. _So the uranium's really here._

"And Ruth's I.D'd that bloke tailing Khalida. Low-level errand-runner, Samir Al-Khudri. He's done time for fomenting religious hatred."

"Anything suspicious from Customs?"

He shook his head. "But Callum's got news from Chen's bug. Seems Sir Roger's got a lunch date tomorrow, and he was very cryptic on the phone. No names."

"Do we know where?"

"Yep." Lucas told her. Ros leaned back into the room and called Harry. When she had updated him, Harry thought for a moment.

"Get Ruth to make a reservation for two. Then rattle Customs and Excise's cage, and tell them I'm not bloody well interested in contraband Louis Vuitton or Korans stuffed with _qat._" Lucas nodded and went smartly off down the corridor.

"He's holding back," Harry said tersely, jerking his thumb at the door. "About that Pakistan trip."

Ros nodded her agreement. Up until the mention of Pakistan, Dominic had been perfectly in control of himself, smooth and convincing. Only then had he become both unsettled and angry, and his anger had been edged with anxiety.

Harry glanced at his watch. "I'm going to see if Callum's dragged any secrets out of his phone. Either way, I want a tracker on it before you return it to him. I'm going to call the Home Secretary for clearance, then start setting up surveillance of the Brixton mosque from tomorrow. I want eyeball on that place. Push him, Ros." A smile flickered. "Turn on the charm."

Ros nodded grimly, and returned to the interview room. Dominic Hastings was already on his feet; he seemed to think the meeting was over. _Sorry to disappoint you, old chap._ Ros resumed her seat and invited him to do the same.

"I really don't have any more information to give you." There was a slight petulance to Hastings's voice now.

Ros favoured him with the smile that Lucas always claimed reminded him of a hungry wolf in a David Attenborough documentary. "Come, Mr Hastings, I don't think that's true, is it?"

He bristled. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

"No," Ros said mildly, "I'm accusing you of not telling me everything you know about Alex Pemberton and Pakistan." When he didn't answer, she leaned towards him and let her voice harden. "No-one, however prominent, and however much of a National Treasure they may be, urges their partner to go to MI-5 rather than the police if they go AWOL. No-one entirely _innocent_, that is. Whatever it is you aren't telling me, Alex Pemberton knew that it could put him at risk from_ somebody_, and he also knew the police would be about as much use in protecting him as a _salwar kameez _in a nudist colony." Dominic Hastings's mouth remained tight shut, and Ros felt her temper inching closer to breaking point. She didn't have time to sit here playing cat and mouse. She shoved back her chair with a deliberately loud screech, got up, and glared down at him.

"Mr Hastings, I don't have time to waste. If you don't want to tell me what I need to know, you can walk out of here - right now. You may then consider yourself responsible for whatever may happen to Alex Pemberton, because if he _is_ in danger, by the time the police investigate his disappearance it will almost certainly be far too late to help him." She saw that register, and pressed home her advantage. "That will be your _personal_ responsibility. If your failure to co-operate with us leads to the committing of an act of terrorism on British soil that you could have helped to prevent, then I will make it my personal pleasure, as well as my professional duty, to ensure that your _criminal_ responsibility for that puts you in court. I will leave you to consider those alternatives in private. " She turned abruptly for the door.

"You can't just leave me stewing in here!" Hastings erupted, leaping to his feet.

"I'm afraid I can," Ros said. "In this building, PACE and all its attendant niceties are rather like your mobile phone, Mr Hastings – they don't get past security. And I assume you_ didn't_ tweet your family and friends to tell them that you'd be dropping in?"

"You bitch," Dominic Hastings snarled. His elegant composure was fast deserting him.

Ros rolled her eyes. "_Do_ try something more original, Mr Hastings. I can have some more of our delicious coffee brought to you? Bit short on reading matter, I'm afraid." She tapped her code into the keypad by the door. "Although I can offer you your letters to Alex – you might fancy a re-read?"

Hastings turned white. "_You've_ got them?"

"Oh, yes." Ros smiled amiably. "Charmingly written. Deserve a wider audience, wouldn't you say?" The clunk of the locks opening added a nicely menacing coda to her words.

"Wait! Wait." Hastings took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed fastidiously along his hairline, the first mildly effeminate gesture Ros had seen from him. "Alex told me in confidence." Ros waited impassively. "If his father … I – look, you can't share this. … bruit it around."

"This is the security service, Mr Hastings, not your Facebook page." Ros closed the door again, resumed her seat, and folded her arms. "Talk."

oOoOoOo

An hour later, she accompanied a lightly perspiring Dominic Hastings to the main entrance, returned his mobile phone, invisibly doctored by Callum Reed, and reminded him with a menacing courtesy of his obligations under the Official Secrets Act. Then she unwisely sprinted up the stairs to the Grid.

She jammed the pods for a few seconds to give her time to catch her breath, then followed Chen's beckoning wave to the conference room. Harry and Ruth were scrutinising something on Callum's laptop, and Lucas and Khalida were busy on two separate telephones. Everyone looked up expectantly as she came in.

"So?" Harry demanded.

Ros, whose lungs had not appreciated her thoughtlessly excited dash up two flights of stairs, took the chair that Lucas pulled out for her, and addressed Callum.

"Those pictures you found on his laptop, the party ones." The technician nodded. "According to Hastings, Pemberton fell in with some of the golden youth of Lahore when he was on a round the world tramp after the Sydney Olympics in 2000. Politicians' kids, rich businessmen's' offspring … anyway, they took him up to the North-West frontier, the Khyber Pass. All of them had money to throw around, and none of them were too worried about the strictures of Allah spoiling their fun." She paused for a moment and pretended she hadn't seen Harry's sharp glance of concern at her breathlessness.

"Fun?" Ruth enquired.

"Hashish, the local hooch - " Ros paused again.

" - and the local girls?" from Khalida.

Ros nodded. "And boys."

"Oh, shit." Callum swivelled around in his chair and almost knocked Harry off his feet. "Don't tell me … he didn't?"

"Yup." Ros sighed. "Only one of them got cold feet at the last minute and did a runner straight into the welcoming arms of the local imam. Who reported it to the plods. "

"He got arrested?" Ruth frowned. "Surely _that_ would have come to the ears of the security services, with his father being so prominent?"

Ros shrugged. "Maybe not. Sir Roger didn't have so much clout then, still on his way up. It was a year before the 11th of September; we didn't have the area under 24-hour surveillance as we do now." She glanced at Harry. "Anyway, Hastings says that one of the bright young things Pemberton was travelling with got his cousin to intervene and trade him off the hook."

"Do we know his cousin?" Chen Liu enquired.

"Oh yes," Ros said wearily. "Mamnoon Hamid." _The link._

Both Lucas and Callum swore, simultaneously, but in different languages. Khalida's face turned to stone, and Harry's the colour of a ripe tomato. MI-5 had strongly suspected the Yorkshire-born businessman of being the money-man behind the July 2005 London bombings, but to their fury he had been acquitted when evidence garnered from phone taps was ruled inadmissible. Since then, he had shuttled busily between London and Lahore, plump, prosperous, and potentially lethal.

"So you think they've had a hold over Pemberton for a decade?" Lucas's voice always became more gravelly still when he was angry.

"Would they bother, for that long?" Chen asked.

"The Soviets kept sleepers buried for twice that amount of time," Ruth pointed out. "With a Daddy rising fast through the Establishment, he'd be a prize worth keeping safe until the time was ripe." She looked at Ros. "The Bradford hit and run."

Khalida and Chen – _too young to remember_ – looked blank. So did Lucas, who would have been behind bars in Russia at the time. Ruth swiftly explained: a young Pakistani boy killed by a car driven by drunken skinheads, and bloody clashes between the English and Asian communities, enthusiastically whipped up by two young men just starting out on their journey to radicalism – Mamnoon Hamid and Asif Iqbal Mahmood.

"Right." Harry broke the silence. "Tomorrow's Friday – we start surveillance on that bloody mosque. Callum, make sure the obs unit's ready. I want you and Chen in position first thing tomorrow. Khalida, you'll attend prayers as agreed."

Ros started. _Agreed by whom?_ "Harry, no. Aideed or Al-Khudri could recognise her."

"I will attend in full _niqab, _Ros._" _Khalida smiled. "And I will be kept in my humble, second-rate place with the other ladies. It is perfectly safe."

"We need eyes in there, Ros." Harry's look was sympathetic, but his tone unyielding. Ros bit her lip, but she said no more. "Ruth, I want to know Hamid's current whereabouts, and a recap of his every bloody move for the last four weeks. Fast."

"There's something about this that doesn't make sense," Lucas said slowly, as people scattered. "Why did Sir Roger tell Towers that Alex had 'disappeared' but then play it down so much to the police?"

"He knows about Alex's homosexuality," Harry said. "Maybe about that Pakistan business, too. Afraid of what they might turn up? Fear of leaks? Even the bloody police 'tweet' these days."

"Yeah …" Lucas still sounded unconvinced. "But he told Towers."

"That was safe," Harry snapped. "Old Boys Network. Towers would have kept _shtum_ with us too, if we hadn't been standing on his bloody Axminster at the time."

Lucas shrugged. "But surely Sir Roger would want _something _done to find him. All right, so Alex is gay and he finds that unacceptable, but it doesn't carry the leper's mark any longer."

"It does for men like him," Ros interjected wryly. "Trust me, Lucas."

"OK." Lucas shook his head. "But still, no father would care so little about his child, whatever he's done - "

"Wouldn't he," Ros murmured. Harry glanced sharply at her.

"We'll see about Sir Roger tomorrow. Incidentally, I'll want a bug – discreet and with damned good sound reception. Get Callum on it."

When Lucas had gone, he spoke gently. "Ros, he didn't mean - "

"I know." Ros cut him off instantly. "Doesn't matter." She was livid with herself. Through contacts, Harry provided her with the only news she ever got about her father, but it was tacitly agreed that her estrangement from Jocelyn Myers was _never _otherwise mentioned on the Grid._ And_ she had fussed about Khalida. _Get a sodding grip, Myers. _"What time's lunch tomorrow?"

She saw Harry hesitate. "Ros, you can't do this one. After the interview, Pemberton would recognise you. You and Lucas will be on obs. Ruth will go with me."

_Shit. _She couldn't argue that, but she could make at least one protest.

"Ruth's not a field officer," she objected.

"No, but she'll be convincing." Harry's eyes crinkled. "I'm trying to pass unnoticed. A romantic _tete a tete_ with Lucas might not do the trick."

Ros acknowledged defeat with a smile that even she could feel was brittle. Harry patted her shoulder affectionately. "You're a bit pale. Chest hurting?" Mutely, she shook her head. "Good. Don't worry, there's life in the old dog yet, Ros. We'll do it right." He strode out.

She followed him and stopped to let Callum and Chen pass. Their heads were bent – inevitably – over a tablet screen, and neither raised their eyes. Harry was deep in conversation with Ruth. Ros sought out Lucas, and saw him and Khalida, who was usually fairly reticent with her colleagues, laughing together by the coffee machine.

_Right, well … _ Officers were beginning to drift homewards, and Ros suddenly realised that incredibly, there was nothing to keep her either. Her colleagues clearly didn't need her supervision. For the first time she could remember, she apparently wasn't needed in the one place where she always had been.

Lucas caught her at the pods. "Ros! Ros – I thought we could go for a drink?"

"Thanks, I'd rather just go home tonight." They rarely told each other lies _- neither of us have anyone else we can safely be open with –_ and Lucas's expression changed as he recognised that she was doing so.

"Ros? What have I done?"

_Nothing. Except remind me of something I've spent five years trying to forget. _ She shook her head. "I'm just tired. See you tomorrow."

She hurried off, not wanting to see his hurt expression, and drove out of the garage far too fast. Half a mile down the Embankment a traffic jam forced her to slow to a crawl. Police were waving cars past an accident, recent by the look of it. The victim was being stretchered into an ambulance.

The relentlessly swirling blue lights catching the mop of blond hair caught her attention. Ros felt suddenly cold as she slid down her window, and it wasn't just because of the mist that drifted in. She leaned out, took a closer look, and recognised Dominic Hastings.

oOoOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review! :)_


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

Ros checked the camera as knuckles rapped with a metallic echo on the van's back doors, then flicked the switch to open up. The welcome aroma of coffee drifted in and a plastic cup was placed into her hand.

"Thanks." She adjusted the headphones she was wearing and said irritably: "They're late."

"Boss's privilege." Callum slid alongside her and offered a packet of sugar. "Oh, sorry – you're bitter, not sweet, aren't you?"

Ros didn't bother glaring. Callum loved to pull the tiger's tail, and he was protected from her sarcasm by an ego that made the deflector shield on the USS Enterprise look like a sheet of tissue paper. She scrutinised the feed from the local CCTV cameras instead. She had expected to be doing this with Lucas, but Harry had sent him with Chen to backstop Khalida at Brixton Mosque. Ros hadn't argued. While the last thing she wanted was to spend three or four hours in the cosy intimacy of an obs van with Callum Reed and several thousand pounds worth of electronic surveillance equipment, she recognised that it was a sensible precaution for Harry to split his SCOs – _especially_ after the events of yesterday evening.

"Hey up," Callum said, and pointed at one of the screens. "Here come Podgy and Bliss."

Ros took a gulp of her coffee to hide her smile. Callum was a cocksure little sod, but he did occasionally come up with a good one. Harry seemed relaxed, as if he really _was_ just taking a friend to lunch; Ruth, on the other hand, looked more nervous than if she were being frog-marched to an unscheduled interview with the Thames House shrink. Ros groaned inwardly, and silently prayed that the analyst could pull this off.

"Your little gadget had better work then," she snapped.

"It will, Boss." He winked. "Trust me."

_Over my dead body. _The phrase made her wince. Dead bodies weren't a possibility that any Section D officer cared to entertain, even metaphorically. She watched the grainy figure of Harry guide Ruth in through the restaurant doors. She and Callum had been in place for over an hour, filming every arrival at and departure from the restaurant and feeding pictures back to the Grid. So far no-one, other than their colleagues and Sir Roger Pemberton, who had arrived alone twenty minutes earlier, had raised any flags, and Ros had seen no familiar faces.

"Right, here we go, then," Callum said confidently. "It'll take a few minutes until Harry gets it into position." He took a swallow at his own coffee. "How's Dominic? Reminds me of that awful bloody song. You know, the singing nun – _Dominique-nique-nique …_"

This time, Ros's icy silence seemed to register the tiniest blip on his radar. With a final abashed '_nique'_ he fell blessedly silent. The last thing she needed now was a reminder of Dominic Hastings. An early phone call had confirmed that he was still unconscious in the intensive care unit of St Thomas's Hospital. Ros's intervention at the scene of the accident had caused consternation among the police, a flurry of telephone calls between her, Thames House, and the Met, and the imposition of an immediate news blackout. The only information she had been able to glean was that Hastings had been mugged in a nearby square, and staggered into the path of a car while trying to outrun his attackers. The driver's stuttering version of events had been corroborated by the fact that Hastings had severe bruising to the face and head, plus a bad stab wound to his chest, none of which – _surprise, surprise -_ was consistent with a gentle bump from a relatively slow-moving Vauxhall Astra. Ros had accompanied him to the hospital and arranged for an armed police guard on his room, her mind whirling with unanswered questions. She had instantly dismissed the possibility of a random mugging – the coincidence was just too much. It was far more likely that Hastings had been under surveillance. _But then surely he would have been dealt with __before__ he came to talk to us? _That opened up a truly alarming possibility – that the surveillance was on MI-5 rather than Hastings. He must have been spotted at Thames House, making the attack on him punitive rather than pre-emptive. _Then_ events made sense. They also meant that the bloody opposition most likely had eyeball on Section D's every move.

_From outside … or in?_ It was Chen who had dared to ask the question, creating an ear-splitting silence and an embarrassed, uncomfortable fidgeting around the table. The easy, knee-jerk conclusion was the one Ros wouldn't contemplate. She was aware that some of her subordinates doubted the sincerity of Khalida Niazi's anti-Islamist zeal. It did sometimes sit uneasily with her dress code and her religious devotion, and Ros had overheard some fairly unsavoury comments about the young woman's habit of saying her daily prayers up on the roof of Thames House. She had slapped them down; the Service _needed_ its Muslim recruits. Besides, Khalida was discreet, and one prayer mat did not a traitor make. Yet in the privacy of Harry's office, it was Lucas, of _all_ people, who had uneasily suggested limiting this morning's op at Brixton to passive surveillance. To Ros's relief, Harry had vetoed that, but still, it was then that he had put Lucas in charge of it, leaving Ros to wonder if she was the only person who trusted Khalida a hundred per cent. Her silent fear now was that the young woman would deliberately take foolhardy risks just to prove the doubters wrong. Ros knew how easy it was to slip into that trap; in her early days in Five, and for similar reasons, she had done so herself.

"I said, how's reception?" She started violently as Callum lifted one of her headphones and spoke directly into her ear. "Sorry." He didn't sound it. "You were on another planet."

Ros couldn't deny it, so quickly, she focused back in, and realised that she could hear Ruth Evershed so clearly that the analyst could have been sitting in Callum's seat.

"It's good." She glanced at him. In the bluish glow from the screens, he reminded her vaguely of Bilbo Baggins. She dismissed the fanciful thought impatiently, and concentrated on the audio feed.

_No, it's charming. _Ruth, she thought irritably, sounded like a genteel Jane Austen heroine.

_I thought you'd like it._ Harry, sounding like what he was – a smooth, experienced operator. Ros flinched at a burst of white noise, presumably caused by Harry moving the device Callum had given him.

"Can you lower the volume of their voices?" she asked. "Enhance the background?" Callum started to tap at his computer keyboard just as her mobile rang. _Lucas calling._

"Hi. Everything OK?"

"Yep." Lucas's voice, Ros was relieved to hear, was calm. "She's just going in."

"You sure it's her?" Ros asked. When she had seen Khalida in full _niqab_ this morning with nothing but her eyes visible, it had occurred to her that Lucas and Chen could easily end up monitoring the wrong woman. It had been left to Chen to point out that Khalida had a limp, inherited from botched surgery in Afghanistan as a child; she could, and often did, disguise it, but this time she was under strict orders not to. When Lucas said yes, Ros added, "No heroics, Lucas. If you think she's pushing it, pull her out." After endless, heated discussion it had been agreed that Khalida would wear a wire under the copious layers of her robes. It was a risk, but not, Ros thought, an excessive one. Brixton Mosque didn't have a reputation for radicalism; probably the reason Mahmood had chosen it as a base. They were unlikely to be frisking worshippers, and if they were_,_ Khalida could always abort.

"Keep me posted." Ros clicked the call off. She could now hear Ruth and Harry having an innocuous conversation about the galleries of Paris, plus two other, louder male voices. She blotted out Ruth's babbling about the Musee d'Orsay and concentrated on the latter.

"It's Pemberton." For once, Callum's smugness didn't grate on her. His device worked perfectly. This time, he was entitled to be pleased with himself.

"Well done. How about the other one?"

"Dunno." Callum started playing a toccata on his keyboard again. "I'll try and isolate it, send it back to the Grid."

Ros grunted agreement. Screening out Callum's tapping as he worked to fine-tune the sound quality, she concentrated, and scribbled notes. Whoever Sir Roger's companion was, he spoke the unaccented, slightly quaint English of a foreigner with a public-school education. It was clear from the conversation that the matter under discussion was oil – a great deal of oil.

"Sounds like he's making some kind of a deal," Callum said.

_Bravo, Sherlock._ Ros didn't answer. Both Sir Roger and his as-yet-anonymous companion were using carefully-coded, diplomatic business-speak, but she had heard her father use it often enough not to need an Enigma machine to mentally 'translate' as she went along. Sir Roger Pemberton was negotiating what sounded like the final details of an agreement with the representative of a country or company as yet unknown, to buy large quantities of crude oil over a very long term – fifty years. He was the government's chief energy advisor, so it was a safe bet that he wasn't trying to secure petrol supplies for the Mercedes in which they'd seen him arrive. An even safer bet was that he wasn't doing this off his own back. The Gnome in the Home Office, as Callum had once labelled him, couldn't possibly be unaware of it. What he _hadn't_ counted on was Section D – which was still, Ros recalled uneasily, supposed to be engaging only in 'arms-length' surveillance of Sir Roger – finding out. She wondered how long he considered the Section's arms to be.

"Forgive me, Sir Roger." She heard the chimes of a ringtone and the sound of a chair being pushed back. "I must just take this call; will you excuse me, please?"

Ros glanced round. "Callum, check CCTV. If he comes out, make sure you get a shot of him. Several. Send them back to the Grid and get them to run face recognition immediately."

"Yep." Callum swivelled his chair slightly. "By the way, they're heading for dessert. Harry and Ruth." His eyes gleamed impishly. "One chocolate mousse with raspberry _coulis, _and two spoons. The old romantic. Didn't reckon Harry had it in him."

Ros glared. "Get on with it." As he did so, she picked up her mobile and called Lucas again. "How goes it?"

"Khalida got in all right, and her wire's operating. It's sermon time. Not one of their firebrands; sounds fairly mild to me." He hesitated. "Maybe a bit too mild; he's getting a bit of heckling, by the sounds of it."

"Any sign of Mahmood?" Ros asked.

"Not that we've seen." Now the hesitation was more marked. "But Khalida did report that Hamid's here, Ros."

Ros felt her stomach clench. She kept her tone light. "Slumming it a bit, isn't he?" The businessman owned a house in Surrey. "He's got a perfectly good mosque in Woking." It wasn't likely that Mamnoon Hamid had come so far to attend prayers merely out of a feeling of solidarity with his co-religionists unlucky enough to live in Brixton rather than Byfleet.

"Yeah. I – ow, shit!" She jumped at Lucas's sudden exclamation and the feedback and interference that accompanied it.

"Lucas? What is it?" She had winced herself, and held the phone away from her ear slightly.

"Sorry." Lucas sounded tense. "Sounds like the natives are getting a bit restless. Lot of shouting and …" he broke off. "What? Yeah – yeah, no, wait." He came back on. "I have to go. Something's happening in there – row's broken out or something. Chen, hang on. Ros, I'll get back to you."

"Lucas! Get Khalida out of there. You hear me? " She stopped as she realised that the connection had been broken, and felt sweat on the palms of her hands. _Bloody stupid thing to say, Myers._ Whatever was going on in Brixton Mosque, Khalida couldn't be safely extracted by either a white, obviously non-Muslim male, or an ethnic Chinese Scouser with short sight. _Shit._ _Now what do we do?_ From here, there wasn't much she _could _do, except mutter a quick prayer to Joshua, patron saint of spies.

Callum interrupted her racing thoughts. "Ros?" She turned on him, about to erupt, and then saw his face. "He's gone back in. They've I.D'd him on the Grid. Minor member of the Saudi royal family. Some cousin umpteen times removed. Sheikh …" he looked at a scribbled piece of paper. "Jamal bin Fuad bin Abdullah al-Saud. Studied over here, did five years at St John's, Oxford."

_I could have told __you__ the last bit. _Ros yanked her headphones back over her head and clamped them onto her ears, as if the act of doing so would drive her anxiety for Khalida and the others out of her mind.

"Harry and Ruth still there?" she snapped.

"Yeah. Moving on to coffee." Callum was looking curiously at her, but for once he uncharacteristically refrained from any flip comments.

"Keep an eye on the street," Ros ordered. "Anyone loitering, any cars which pass more than once. Note every anomaly, and God help you if you miss so much as a dachshund peeing up a lamppost." Reluctantly, she switched off her phone, then closed her eyes tightly to block out any visual stimuli that might disturb her concentration, and listened as the footfalls of Jamal al-Saud returned to the table.

"_Do forgive me, Sir Roger. I knew that there were … meetings being held in Jeddah, but the decision has taken a little longer than I expected to filter through._ Liquid bubbled into a glass. _I am honoured to tell you that the Kingdom will be able to accept the terms of our agreement with Her Majesty's Government." _There was an infinitesimal pause, and Ros could have spoken the next words for him._ "Subject to one or two small assurances. Very minor, I promise you. May I?"_

"Please do." Pemberton's voice sounded quite equable, but Ros, who had heard her father use exactly the same tone and known that silent rage was bubbling behind his impassive politeness even as he spoke, guessed it belied his feelings.

"_His Majesty has been rather concerned for some time about security problems here in the United Kingdom."_ The smooth voice paused for a moment, and cutlery tinkled on china._ "Please forgive me for mentioning such sensitive and delicate matters. But If our country is to commit to a long-term energy agreement with yours, on terms that I am sure you will agree are very favourable …"_ again a pause until, Ros presumed, he received the nod of agreement that she couldn't see. "_My government would appreciate formal assurances from yours that your extremists - shall we say your … home-grown radicals … have been dealt with. Brought under control." _Ros heard Callum mutter something about it wasn't Saudi Arabia's bloody business how they dealt with their 'extremists', and hissed at him to shut up. For once, she agreed with him, but these weren't the ideal circumstances for marking the day in red on the calendar.

"_Of course, it goes without saying that the decision on how to do that lies with London, _al-Saud continued._ Indeed, His Majesty has been extremely impressed by the measures your security services have taken since the dreadful bombings of 2005 to … stabilise the situation." _(Thanks for nothing,chum, Callum muttered _sotto voce._) "_The Olympics, and of course Her Majesty's magnificent Diamond Jubilee, both went without a hitch. A most admirable display of organisation, and not a hint of disorder or a threat of disruption." _Ros remembered the quantity of threats or 'challenges' (the Government's word for them) that the Service had had to deal with, and dismissed the memory instantly. '_Indeed, the smooth running of those events and the very positive and … yes … relaxed atmosphere_ _in which they took place have played a key role in influencing my government's decision to make this agreement with you. A year or so ago, with riots across the country, racial and religious tensions high … to be frank, their decision then might have been very different."_

Pemberton clearly felt that it was time he put a word in. "The British government will be gratified to learn of your country's positive assessment of the situation. I will be sure to convey it to the Cabinet."

"_Please do._ Ros bared her teeth at the gentle irony. _But you do still have certain … individuals … on your soil - agitators, stirring up some of your more impressionable youths. Leading them into let's say, erroneous paths? Agitators that your government seems either unwilling, or unable to deal with as decisively as might seem advisable." _

"I am a scientific advisor. It is not my position to comment on Government security policy, as I'm sure you'll understand." Ros opened her eyes and stared around the angular shadows of the obs van to re-orient herself and shake off the ghosts. The man's tone and language were so familiar that she could picture Jocelyn Myers at the table.

"_Of course. But you are authorised to speak for your government as I am for mine. Were we not, we should not be here. His Majesty's Government merely seeks an official assurance that the security situation in the United Kingdom is stable, that the terror threat level is low and that the forces of law and order can contain and control it. It would, after all, be irresponsible of my country to enter into such a crucial agreement as this without it. Were a major incident to occur, irreparable damage would be done to our reputation in the world, and it could also have a serious impact on our domestic situation. We realise that under your political system the Home Secretary would not be able to give such an assurance in public - or even in private. But we would be more than satisfied with such an assurance on his behalf from you, Sir Roger. Then we could move to sign and announce the agreement as soon as possible. I'm sure you'll understand."_

Ros snorted._ Smug little bastard. _She waited for the reply._  
_

"Of course. In fact, the Home Secretary anticipated that you might have such concerns." There wasn't a flicker of emotion in Pemberton's voice, and Ros, remembering his performance during his 'police' interview, felt an unwilling admiration for the man. "While a 100% guarantee would, of course, be impossible to give, I assure you, with his complete support, and authority, that the security situation in the United Kingdom is safer and more stable now than it has been since September 2001. Her Majesty's security services are thoroughly on top of the situation, and there is currently_ no_ substantial terrorist threat to this country. Nor is there likely to be one in the future."

"_Splendid. Then I shall recommend to my government that we move to signature within the week. At our embassy, I think. Will that be acceptable?"_

"Perfectly." Ros caught the sound of two hands firmly clasping together. "Then perhaps we should be going."

She pulled off her headphones, sat back, and threw them down on the desk. _No substantial terrorist threat to this country._ Just Pemberton's bloody son somehow mixed up with Islamic radicals. Cold sweat was trickling down her spine as if someone had opened a tap between her shoulder blades. She felt Callum's eyes on her.

"And Towers knew about this," the technical specialist said. "No wonder he was so bloody twitchy." For once there was no flippancy in him. "Harry's going to love that."

_I'm not singing the bloody Hallelujah Chorus about it myself._ Ros switched her phone back on. "Where are they?"

"Harry's just settling up," Callum answered. "Home, James?"

"Yes. Step on it," Ros snapped, as Callum scrambled into the driver's seat. "We need - " she stopped as her phone signalled a voice message. Ros opened it up. _Lucas. _She put it on speakerphone.

For a second, she could barely distinguish his voice above the shouts and screams. A rhythmic, metallic thudding sound punctuated the noise – fists pounding against the sides of the obs van.

"Ros!" Lucas was shouting, and she could hear the engine catching and stuttering in the background. "We've got a bloody riot here … too dangerous … they know we're – _shit_ – they know we're here. I'm pulling out - " There was a shattering of glass and a scream, a distant wail of sirens, and then the phone went dead.

"Stop!" Ros yelled at Callum. She checked the audio feed. Dead as a dodo; Harry and Ruth must have left the restaurant. She hit the door release, leapt out of the van to see them just reaching Harry's car, and raced down the street. Both turned, startled.

"Something you need to know." Ros gulped in air. "_Now._" She panted out the news about the team at Brixton.

"Get in the car." Faced with the overt alarm of his usually imperturbable section chief, Harry didn't hesitate. When Ruth opened the front door he shook his head. "No Ruth, you go back with Callum, please. Both of you, work on re-establishing comms with Lucas, and most important, find Khalida."

"But Harry - " Ruth protested.

"_No. _Go." Harry gave her a brief kiss on the cheek and then slid into the driver's seat. Ros slammed the passenger door, and the car squealed away from the kerb and headed for the river.

oOoOoOo

"I should never have let her go in there." Ros drained her glass and resumed her restless pacing to and fro across the room. "I should have known."

"You _couldn't_ have known." Lucas's words were muffled by the bag of ice cubes that he held against his swollen jaw. "Brixton's never been considered extremist. The file had no indication of radical activity."

"_File._" Ros stopped by the window and stared into the darkness. The wind was bending a young sapling almost double, and a gust dashed raindrops against the pane like someone hurling a handful of pebbles. "Since when did I ever make a decision based on a _file,_ Lucas? She brought me the bloody report that something was going on there herself, and _still_ I sent her in. I _knew._"

Lucas went to reply and grunted in discomfort. Ros looked round.

"Want some more painkillers?" When he nodded gratefully, she brought two from the bathroom. He was lucky only to have a black eye and bruises from the stone that had smashed through the window. Chen Liu had needed stitches for cuts from flying glass and had lost a tooth when enraged young men had poured from the mosque and attacked the supposed delivery van from a local fruit and veg shop. Ruth had furiously torn into the junior analyst who, by assuming that Google could replace thorough research and thereby failing to discover that the shop in question had closed down six months earlier, had almost sacrificed Chen and Lucas to a lynch mob. They had been dragged from the vehicle and the collective boot was just going in when the police arrived. That was bad enough; infinitely worse was the disappearance of Khalida Niazi in the chaos of the riot. Harry had over-ruled Ros's objections and ordered her, Lucas and Chen to leave immediately while he orchestrated a police search of the area. By that time, torrential rain was cooling tempers and clearing the streets, but it failed to dispel the mystery of what had happened to Khalida. They had a bomb attack to prevent. Her comms were dead. All they could do for the moment, Harry told Ros, his eyes compassionate but his tone resolute, was trust to the young woman's skill and experience, and pray that she wasn't. He had headed for Paddington Green to check on some of the men arrested, and since Lucas couldn't drive, Ros had taken him back to her flat. Neither of them felt able to sleep, so they went over and over the day's events while Lucas nursed his bruises, and Ros carved her tension into the warp and weft of the carpet.

"Come and sit down," Lucas urged gently now. "She's not a child," as Ros, despite herself, leaned wearily against him on the sofa. "If she's really got herself into a tight corner, she'll know what to do."

"_If?_" Ros jerked up again, causing him to drop the ice cubes, which skittered wetly across the floor.

"I meant - " Lucas began.

"I _know_ what you meant!" Ros exploded. "_If_ it wasn't she who told them the obs van was there. _If _she hasn't been leaking information. _If_ she isn't a traitor. You don't trust her either. None of you have ever really considered her one of us and you still don't!"

She stormed into the kitchen, brought back a bowl and floor cloth and started angrily cleaning up the spilled ice cubes. She knew she was defensive about Khalida, and she knew why – because the young woman was, albeit for different reasons, an outsider on the Grid just as she herself had always been. She had over-reacted, but she was damned if she was going to apologise. The tensions of the day were making her chest ache, and she impatiently took a dose from her inhaler.

"Here." Lucas knelt down alongside her. He spoke quietly but firmly. "Let me."

Still silently fuming, Ros did, and straightened just as the front door bell rang. Lucas looked up, surprised, and Ros froze. She rarely had visitors, and _never_ casual ones. The ringing, staccato and erratic, continued, and now a scraping and tapping sound joined it. Ros fetched a carving knife from the kitchen drawer. She gestured to Lucas to position himself behind the bedroom door, then advanced slowly down the hall. The _judas_ revealed nothing but a deserted landing. The sounds had stopped. Ros slid the bolts back, eased the door open with infinite caution, and, knife at the ready, looked out.

"Lucas! _Lucas!_"

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review!_


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

The urgency in her shout brought Lucas at a run. For an instant he looked bewildered as to why she would be paying such close attention to what must have looked like a soggy heap of black rubbish sacks. Then, shocked realisation dawned.

"Here." As Ros ran back into the flat ahead of him, he lifted the slumped figure of Khalida Niazi into his arms. The young woman made a sound that might have been fear and might have been a protest, but Lucas ignored it. He carried her in, kicking the front door unceremoniously shut with his heel.

"Take this." Ros shook open a blanket as he lowered Khalida gently onto the sofa, and Lucas swiftly wrapped it around the young woman's drenched robes. "Khalida, can you hear me? It's Ros."

Slowly, Khalida blinked her eyes open. Ros saw her shrink back from Lucas's touch, motioned him aside, and sat next to her.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. Even to herself she sounded panicky.

"No … no. Just cold." Ros felt Lucas's hand squeezing her shoulder and looked up to see him smiling reassuringly. _You see, it's OK. _No names had been mentioned by either of them, but Lucas, damn him, knew perfectly well that her fear of 'another Jo' had driven her anxious pacing for the last few hours_._

"Go and run a bath for her," she rapped. "Thanks." She turned back. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Khalida tried to smile. "Massood." Ros's heart lurched, but she made herself wait. Khalida bunched the blanket around herself. "I am sorry, Ros. I had to drop the wire; it was too dangerous."

"It's all right." Harry's search had retrieved it near the side entrance to the mosque used by its female worshippers. "Massood was _there_?"

Khalida nodded, and let her headscarf slide back; underneath it her hair was frizzy and damp. "It is the way with these … these … _dogs_." The word was spat out with venomous hatred. "They claim the blessing of the Koran, yet they will never hesitate to use and _abuse_ it for the vile things they do." She glanced up as Lucas returned. "I am not the only one, it seems, to see the humiliations they inflict on their women as a useful form of camouflage."

Lucas and Ros exchanged glances. "Do you mean - " Lucas began, but Khalida interrupted him.

"That Massood was there, in the women's section with us? Yes. In full _niqab_. Unrecognisable to the best technology that Callum could provide."

Ros half-smiled. "But not to you."

"No." The young woman's features were pinched with cold and exhaustion, but triumph gleamed in her eyes. "Something went wrong, isn't it? Someone among the younger men identified the comms van."

Swiftly and concisely, Ros explained. Anger (perfectly justifiable anger, Ros thought; the poor research had endangered her life as much as those of Lucas and Chen) replaced the momentary triumph, but when Ros nodded to her to go on, she did so calmly.

"When the rioting started there was a lot of panic. Many women had children with them, and they thought the police had come to raid the mosque. They all started to scream and run, and I with them. To do otherwise would have been suspicious," as Ros nodded her understanding. "That is when I realised that he – Massood – was not a woman. You can disguise many things under the robes, but not the way you move, Ros. _Hijab, niqab_, it makes no difference. A woman will always move like a woman. And he did not." She was seized by a sudden spasm of shivering.

"You should get yourself warmed up," Lucas urged. "Go and bathe; tell us the rest afterwards."

Stubbornly, Khalida shook her head. "I am fine." Ros caught Lucas's expression and correctly read it as exasperation that Khalida seemed determined to model her conduct on her Section Chief's – the operation first, and common sense be damned.

"I did not know for sure it was him, of course. But as we all fled into the street – well, it was chaotic, as you know." Lucas nodded grimly. "A man came running towards us, shouting and waving at this … 'woman'. It was him. Hamid. _Then_ I knew."

"And then?" Ros prompted.

"Then I lost my wire. I fell." A smile that might have been mischievous flickered over Khalida's face. "I – er – 'tripped' on my robes as I was running away. A damsel in distress can move even the most vicious of thugs, Ros, and they considered me one of theirs. _La Incognita_ helped me up and dragged me with him. Hamid drove us away in his car."

Ros was torn between being proud of the young woman's courage and initiative, and giving her hell for doing exactly what she had feared she would - taking suicidal risks. Pride in her recruit won out, together with recognition that given the opportunity, she would almost certainly – orders notwithstanding – have acted in the same way.

"You do realise you've put me right in the dog-house?" Lucas said ruefully. "I was supposedly there to prevent you doing anything dangerous."

The quip eased the tension. For a moment, both women smiled with him, but Khalida quickly became serious again.

"Hamid asked if I understood Urdu. I told them no. Then he says the safest place to go is to the warehouse, '_to check on the goods'_. The other pig, he agreed, but only nodded, he never spoke - to avoid giving himself away, I suppose." Again, Khalida pulled the blanket around her. "Hamid asked me where I was going, and when I said home he advised me not to take public transport, said the police might be carrying out spot checks - '_harassing the Believers_' was how he put it." Her voice rang with disgust. "It would be safer, he said, if I were to walk." She hesitated. "I was afraid they might have someone watching me. So when I left the car, I did – and I checked for surveillance all the way."

"Was there any?" Ros asked sharply.

"No." Khalida shook her head decisively. "You have my word, Ros. Had I seen anything, I would never have put you at risk by coming here."

"Why _did_ you come here?" Lucas asked. "Why not the office?"

Instantly, the young woman's striking eyes flashed with anger.

"Because, Lucas, by the time I was sure I had no tail I was a very long way from the Grid. And - " she hesitated, then burst out, "because I know one person only who trusts me, and would not think that I was lying, or suspect that I had betrayed the entire operation. Or should I go to _your _house, you with your prejudices and your doubts?"

Tears of anger sparkled in her eyes. Embarrassment was writ large on Lucas's face, and Ros felt for him. She knew he hadn't meant to cast aspersions or cause offence, but he had never quite understood how sensitive, and therefore how defensive Khalida could be. The young woman was shivering visibly again now; reason enough, she thought, to cut this short.

"No-one doubts you, Khalida." She stood up. "And you're being a bit rough on Lucas, you know." She softened the rebuke with a quick smile. "Officially, that's _my_ job, and I'm actually pretty good at it." Lucas gave an awkward, crooked smile of acknowledgement, but the air was still crackling with tension, and Ros wished she could bang their bloody stupid heads together; whatever other talents her CV might proclaim to the world, the intricacy of peace-making wasn't one of them. "So," she added briskly. "I need to report your information to Harry. I'll find something you can wear so you can bathe, change, and get some rest."

Khalida got up, but she looked uncomfortably at Lucas. "Yes, but I cannot stay … if - "

Ros bit back the snapped retort of _'it's an order_' – a favourite of Harry's that she had adopted almost by osmosis through years of working with him – and instead, stretched the last resources of her patience into a tight smile.

"Yes, you can. Come on."

She installed the young officer in the bathroom and rejoined a chastened Lucas, who looked warily at her. "I wasn't insinuating anything."

"I know you weren't. She's over-sensitive anyway, and she's on edge. It's understandable." With an effort, Ros kept any trace of impatience from her voice. _God, if I have to pour much more oil on troubled waters I'll need Sir Roger sodding Pemberton to buy me a well of the stuff. _She squeezed his hand. "Let's give the boss the good news."

She rang Harry's number and put the phone on loudspeaker. The whiplash crack of '_Pearce_' warned her to keep her report concise. Harry listened in silence, and when she had finished, said: "Right. Well, I've managed to get a meeting with the Home Secretary first thing. I want to know what the hell he thinks he's doing, blindsiding us. If I'd had the slightest inkling about these negotiations, I'd have told him to put his softly-softly approach where the sun doesn't shine." There was a menacing growl in his voice with which both of them were only too familiar. "Is Khalida absolutely sure about Mahmood?"

"Yes," Ros answered. She took a deep breath; he didn't always appreciate unsolicited advice. "Harry, it looks as if Mamnoon Hamid's in this up to his eyeballs."

Harry grunted without surprise. "You think he's giving Mahmood house room in the bloody stockbroker belt?"

Ros shook her head. "I don't think he'd stick his fat neck out that far. He's made himself a respectable pillar of the community over the last six, seven years. He wouldn't shit right on his own doorstep." A contemptuous snort erupted from her mobile. "But that comment about the warehouse, checking the goods – could have referred to the uranium, could even have meant Pemberton. Either way, I think we need to take a closer look. Fast."

"I agree." There was a pause. "I'll have Callum dig around in his company records first, see if there's anything we can use as a pretext for a quick visit by the Inland Revenue, or Health and Safety. I'd rather save the heavy mob until there's no alternative; we don't want to risk spooking the bastards. Especially since - "

_Especially since they're probably still watching us,_ Ros finished silently, even as Harry changed what she was sure he had been going to say in mid-sentence. "We need that uranium first, and then Pemberton - in that order." There was a pause. "Lucas with you?"

"Yeah." Ros reflected wryly that over some twenty years in the Security Services she had successfully kept secrets that could have brought down governments. Yet the relationship between herself and Lucas was obviously old news to Harry, had been betrayed to Callum by Lucas, and must now, surely, be suspected by Khalida too. Professionally, she was a clam; in her personal life – such as it was – she was leaking like a bloody sieve.

"You all right, lad?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Harry." Lucas sounded as if he was speaking through a mouthful of cold porridge, but he winked with his one fully-open eye at Ros as he too borrowed her stock phrase. "Fully functional."

"Good. Stay that way - and keep an eye on the Dynamic Duo." Ros rolled her eyes as Lucas tried and failed to hide a smirk. "Ros, we're meeting Towers at his club for breakfast – of all things." Ros could picture his face wrinkling in distaste. "That's what comes of letting Westminster cosy up to Capitol Hill. Before you know it, he'll be bringing his spiritual advisor with him to say grace over the bloody scrambled eggs." Ros bit her lip to stifle her laughter. "Nine o' clock. Tell Khalida good work, and Lucas, you're responsible for getting her safely into the office tomorrow. Understood?"

"Yes," they said in chorus, and Ros hung up. She checked her watch.

"Khalida must have nodded off in there." Uncertain how to continue, she was relieved when Lucas did it for her.

"Why don't you go and get her settled? You can use the spare room and I'll kip down on the sofa in here." He smiled faintly. "I don't want to tread on any more corns."

Ros nodded, albeit unwillingly. Now that she knew Khalida was safe and the haunting spectre of Jo Portman had drifted away, she felt utterly drained. She yearned for Lucas's arms around her and the reassurance of his quiet snores in her ear. _You're being pathetic._ She had a member of her team to look after, and that came first.

"OK. I'll bring you a pillow and - " She broke off as Lucas chuckled. "What?"

"When I'm not with you, I still spend one night out of every three on the floor." He drew her into his arms and kissed her. "You care too much, Ros. About all of us."

_You're the only people I have to care about. _Lucas probably understood that – he understood far more about her than she had ever told him – but she still wasn't going to confirm it officially, for him or anyone else.

"Yeah, well." She made herself pull back. "Night." She thought she heard a murmur of '_dushinka'_ on the end of his 'sleep well' as she moved towards the bedroom. Khalida, dressed in the least revealing pyjamas Ros possessed, was towelling her hair dry.

"I feel much better." She smiled. "Thank you, Ros."

"_I_ should be thanking_ you_," Ros answered crisply. "You did a damned good job." She hardened her voice deliberately. "But don't you ever take risks like that again, Khalida. I give you orders for a reason - I want them obeyed. And incidentally, my last one was that you go to bed and rest. So do it. Now."

Khalida hesitated. "But what about you and Lu - "

"I'll sleep in the spare room." Ros glared until the younger woman slid under the duvet, turned for the door, and then froze as Khalida said softly: "Ros! Lucas is a good man. A worthy one."

_I know._ Khalida's words might just have been an apology for losing her temper with him, but Ros was an expert both at reading sub-text … and ignoring it.

"Good, then I take it you won't object to having breakfast with him and going in together tomorrow. I have an early meeting. Goodnight." She avoided Khalida's steady gaze – wise and knowing beyond her years – and firmly closed the door on it.

oOoOoOo

A monstruous traffic jam, created by an impatient commuter who had slammed into a traffic light while trying to jump it, delayed Ros the following morning, and she found the Home Secretary and Harry already at table. Murmuring an apology, and trying not to pant too audibly following her sprint up the stairs, she sat down. Towers was munching his way steadily through a Full English, while Harry was nursing a black coffee and, Ros knew, enough grievances to keep them there until lunchtime. She assumed he had already laid most of them out; this morning Towers looked far more like Grumpy than Happy.

"Miss … Myers." _He must have checked the personnel files._ Ros summoned up the charming 'official' smile that never reached her eyes and that she knew some of her subordinates described as Steel Magnolias. Towers drained his coffee cup.

"Harry, you are not the only person in government who takes his instructions from a higher authority. The PM _ordered_ me to keep the talks with the Saudis under the tightest wraps. _No-one_ was to be aware of them other than he, the Foreign Secretary and myself, and 'no-one_' _included the Security Services. These matters are far too sensitive in both economic and political terms, and it is an open secret that Her Majesty's ship of state often has more leaks than a Welsh market garden." He poured Ros some coffee; she nodded her thanks. "I'm sorry if your pride has been injured - "

"My pride," Harry said icily, "is not the issue. My objection, Home Secretary, is that your paranoia may have hampered my Section's efforts to prevent ordinary citizens of this country suffering serious and _real_ injuries in a terrorist outrage!" His eyes, made beady by his fury, bored into the politician. "Thanks to being forced to walk on eggs, we still haven't found Alex Pemberton, and your sacrosanct oil deal will be blown to pieces along with those ordinary citizens if he is implicated with it in any way whatsoever."

At the word 'paranoia', Towers had flung down his napkin, the drama of the gesture somewhat spoiled when the end flopped soggily into his coffee cup.

"That will do, Harry!" Several heads turned at his shout, and he hurriedly lowered his voice. "You have already informed me that you are hot on the trail of the terrorists you believe to be involved. You have the full resources of MI-5, Special Branch and CO-19 at your disposal. There is - "

"You should convene COBRA immediately." Harry's fist clenched on the table. "This is a threat that may require large-scale evacuation, and if, God forbid, we cannot contain it, decontamination treatment for large numbers of people."

The Home Secretary lost colour, but not his nerve. He returned Harry's glare with interest.

"Out of the question. News would trickle into the public domain – and reach the Saudis. You will deal with this matter as I have already ordered you to do – discreetly, efficiently, _and without publicity_."

There was a long moment's silence, and Ros was incongruously reminded of two alleycats bristling for a fight. Then Harry contemptuously flicked the dripping napkin out of the cup, lightly spraying Towers' silk tie in the process, pushed back his chair and rose.

"Home Secretary." He jerked his head at Ros, but as they turned, Towers said coldly: "One more thing. Yesterday, Cabinet gave its formal approval to the Mayor's suggestion of a victory parade for our Olympic medallists on Monday of next week. The Met will be providing route security and handling crowd control, and you are formally instructed to comply with any requests for information and security clearances they may make to you."

Ros wasn't cold, but an icy shiver rippled through her. The look Harry gave Towers would have shrivelled a weightlifter's muscles to spaghetti. His lip curled in derision. "Tell me you're joking. Tell me that you're not, for God's sake, planning a mass celebration in the heart of London when I have a major bloody terrorist alert on my hands? Is government policy failing so badly that you're really that desperate for votes, Home Secretary?"

With that, William Towers got wrathfully to his feet. Even standing at his most bombastically erect he still had to look up at Harry.

"Votes and government policy are_ my_ job, Harry. _Yours_ is to prevent acts of terrorism in this country. You will prevent this one, and when you have done so, the promised resignation of your commission will be gratefully accepted."

Ros didn't dare meet Harry's eye. For a second there was absolute silence. Then Harry Pearce said: "And offered with alacrity." He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

oOoOoOo

As they stepped in through the pods, Ros caught sight of Chen, Lucas and Callum gathered in a tight knot around Ruth Evershed's desk. The analyst looked preoccupied. Since that was her default setting, Ros took no particular notice, but she did register that Lucas's expression was tense, and that Chen appeared particularly agitated.

"Something's put the cat among the pigeons," she observed dryly.

Harry, who hadn't broken his irate silence throughout the drive from Towers's club, filling the car with the static electricity of an impending storm instead, bestowed a thunderous glare on the group, barked: "Meeting room," and strode off. Hastily, Ros shepherded everyone in his wake, ignoring Ruth's flustered attempts to explain something to her. Whatever it was could wait; Harry, in his current mood, most certainly wouldn't. She closed the doors as Harry tutted impatiently, and only then noticed Khalida's absence. She slid them open again, but Harry shot a look at her that caused her hands to reverse the action almost of their own volition. Without a word, she reluctantly sat down.

"Right." In the silence, Harry's eyes played from one nervous face to the other. "_Well_? Playing Quakers isn't going to trace the uranium or Alex Pemberton. Come on, come on, dazzle me with your creative thinking!"

"Thomething came to me, Harry." Chen, Ros noticed, was lisping slightly, presumably from the extraction of two teeth the previous day. "I thought maybe it would thimplify things if we came at the problem from the other thide."

"The other thide – _side_ – of _what_?" Harry snapped.

Chen gulped. "Well, if we can't find Pemberton, look at pothible targeth – anything coming up thoon, fethtivals, outdoor contherts, football theathon …" he trailed off uneasily.

Not for the first time, Ros found herself admiring his willingness to think laterally. At any other time it would have been a bright idea, but today, Chen's imaginative approach was about to be scuppered by the Government's political hay-making.

"Harry, it makes sense." At Harry's lack of response, Ruth sprang to Chen's defence. "The whole purpose of a dirty bomb isn't to do physical damage; it's to cause as many casualties as possible. Chen and I have been checking - "

"Then you've been wasting your time." Ruth flushed crimson at the world-weary disinterest in his tone. "Tell them, Ros."

Swiftly and concisely, Ros shared the information they had learned from the Home Secretary. There was a moment's incredulous silence, finally broken by Callum.

"What the hell kind of a breakfast do they serve at that club, Harry? Magic mushrooms? Jesus, it's not his eggs that are scrambled, it's his brains!"

"Thank you for that helpful insight, Callum." Harry rubbed his hands over his face.

"But – but they won't go ahead, not now he knows the rithk!" Chen burst out. "The Olympics ... Pemberton ... it mutht be the target! Can't you make them thtop?"

"Trying to prevent a politician from trading on good publicity is like trying to stop a bullet train by standing on the track holding a red flag," Harry said. "A roar, a head-on collision, and then a nasty mess left behind." He looked across the table at Lucas, and his frown deepened threateningly. "Where the hell's Khalida?"

Before Lucas could answer, the door slid open. Harry swung round. With barely a nod to him, Khalida almost ran the length of the room and showed a sheaf of papers to Ruth, murmuring something that Ros, sitting next to Harry, couldn't hear. She _could_, however, see his face, which looked like a party balloon with too much helium pumped into it.

"Khalida!" she snapped. "What is it?"

To her annoyance, it was Ruth, not Khalida, who answered. Her eyes were puffy, and Ros suspected she had probably spent the night on the Grid, trying to atone for the almost lethal error made by her junior.

"Harry, we've been looking into the recent activities of Hamid's long-distance haulage business." She gestured with the print-outs Khalida had given her. "Callum's been into his records like you said - to see if there's anything we could use as a pretext for getting in there and poking around."

Harry's fingers drummed impatiently on the table. "Well? _Is_ there?"

"Some pretty fancy accounting," Callum supplied. "I'm getting onto Parliament Street to have a chat with them, dig a bit deeper. I've got a - "

"Yes, but Harry, this is something else." Callum looked miffed, and Ros looked at Ruth in amazement; she couldn't remember the last time Ruth had interrupted someone. "His haulage activities have spread like a rash in the last few years – all over Europe _and_ into the Middle East. Of course it's cheaper than air freight, what with the rise in fuel costs - "

"Ruth," Ros interjected softly. _Two can play at that game._ However hard Ruth tried to keep her reports brief, she inevitably drifted back into the sometimes pernickety detail of analysis. "Your point?" She saw the spark in Ruth's eyes, but the analyst didn't back down.

"My _point_ is … " she glanced down at the printout and Khalida, still standing behind her, leaned down and indicated something again. "Is that in late June, according to this, one of Mamnoon Hamid's lorries made a return trip to Minsk."

A collective gasp and excited muttering whooshed round the table like a rush of wind through a copse of trees. Ros swallowed. This was becoming like a lethal juggling routine – the urgency of securing the nation's desperately needed energy supplies, the risk of losing them if Sir Roger Pemberton's integrity and his guarantees to the Saudis were endangered, the possibility that the government could be brought down, not to mention the safety of Alex Pemberton and the dreadful threat to innocent lives from a dirty bomb. She kept her gaze on Harry, waiting for his ruling.

She didn't have to wait long. "That's it," Harry said decisively. "We go in. Forget the Inland Revenue - random Health and Safety check. With an operator like Hamid there's bound to be _some_ violation, and if there isn't, we'll invent one." He surveyed his team. There was eager tension in the room now, Ros thought, not unlike a row of Olympic sprinters waiting for the gun to release them into explosive action.

"Khalida, you stay well clear of this one." Harry's eyes moved round the table to Chen Liu and Lucas. "You two were 'made' in Brixton, and some of those louts might have taken happy snaps." He looked towards Ros. "How do you feel about being an Elf 'n Safety inspector?"

She smiled faintly. "Won't be the first time." It was many years ago, but she still remembered going into a prison with Zaf Younis in the same guise. _The Cotterdam affair._ _The start of so much._ She felt Ruth's eyes on her. "But they work in pairs, Harry."

He nodded thoughtfully. "And they're usually gadget-happy little know-it-alls." Callum looked slowly up from his iPad. "You'll make a lovely couple." He got up. "Lucas, you and Ruth get cracking on legends. Ros and Callum - come with me."

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review! :)_


	12. Chapter 12

_Sorry this has taken a while to post; a rather awkward work trip got in the way. Happy New Year, everyone!_

Chapter 12

Ros took one last nibble at the pastry and then pushed the remains away from her. It had provided an excuse for coming to the cafeteria, but had otherwise served little purpose - except to remind her of why she almost never did so. She stirred her cappuccino, and watched the cream swirling into spirals. She hadn't slept particularly well the previous night, and feeling the need for coffee and a few minutes' solitude to clear her sluggish brain, had sneaked out of the Grid under cover of the feverish preparations for the incursion she and Callum were about to make into Mamnoon Hamid's lair. A wilting Swiss Cheese plant that, rather like her, looked as if it would benefit from a cold shower and a blast of fresh air, concealed her from the few other officers in the cafeteria this early.

"Ros?"

_Except from those who know my sodding hiding places. _At the tentative sound of her name she looked up with the most ferocious glare she could summon up.

"_What_?" she snarled.

Lucas took a reflexive step backward, and then forced himself to stop. "Do you mind if I join you?"

_Yes, I bloody well do. _Lucas was the main reason why she'd come here seeking peace and quiet with a cup of caffeinated gnat's pee and a half-dead houseplant.

"If you must." She couldn't have made it more ungracious, but he sat anyway. Ros watched him turning his cup round and round until the slice of lemon floating in his tea should have been green with vertigo rather than yellow. "Well? Spit it out. We both know what you've come for."

He swallowed, and blinked nervously. "Ros, I'm not trying to create difficulties - "

"You don't have to try, you've got a natural gift," she snapped.

He flushed. "That's unfair. I'm just trying to make sure you're all right."

Ros mentally counted to five -_ bugger the other five_. "Lucas, that is _not_ your job."

His expression darkened. "Am I allowed to be concerned about you only if it's written in black and white in my job description, then?"

Ros saw his discomfort, and checked her incipient explosion. She knew Lucas was unhappy at being unable to accompany her to Hamid's warehouse, but Harry's reasons for barring him were solid, and he hadn't been able to refute them. Instead, he had been arguing with her that Callum should at least be briefed about her physical problems – '_just in case'_. Ros had rejected the idea out of hand, and it was a heated, angry spat about the matter yesterday that had sent them off to sleep – or in her case, not to – alone in their respective flats; Ros didn't appreciate _anyone_ telling her she was being selfish, especially when she knew they were right. Still, she knew only too well what it was like to be in his current position, so she made one final attempt at patience.

"Lucas, I'll be fine." She checked that no curious eyes were peering through the foliage, linked her fingers in his across the table and shook his hand reprovingly. "I'll be impersonating a Health and Safety Inspector, for God's sake, not Wonderwoman. And you know Harry'll have the plods on standby within half a mile." That had been at Lucas's own suggestion. "That's enough. And - " she fished her inhaler from her jacket pocket and waved it under his nose, "I'll have this with me. _And_ a spare, before you start."

He smiled, but with an effort. "But Callum doesn't - "

"No. And he won't." Ros got up. _That's enough. No more concessions._ "Lucas, I'm his superior officer. He needs to trust me, and he's not going to have much confidence in someone he thinks might keel over at any second. Which I won't_._" She scooped her inhaler off the table. _Last time I used this type of cover, the inhaler was a fake, and I used it to get some breathing space. Now the sodding thing's real and I might need it to breathe, full stop. _Despite her bravado she felt a sudden shiver of apprehension.

"What is it?" Lucas's voice was sharp. "Ros?"

"Nothing." She strode off towards the exit. "Goose walked over my grave." When Lucas's anxious eyes didn't leave her face, she shrugged, and told him about her long-ago visit to Cotterdam jail with Zaf Younis, trying to keep her tone as light as she could. "Ironic, isn't it? Who said history doesn't repeat itself?"

"Cotterdam?" Lucas was frowning. "I remember something about that. Wasn't that the operation when Ruth got - "

"Yeah. Long time ago." Ros glanced over her shoulder; there was no-one behind them, and she knew they were in one of the rare spots not covered by CCTV cameras. She stretched up and kissed him. "Come on, Lucas. Trust me. Please?"

"I do. Always. You know that." He cupped her face in his hands and smiled into her eyes. The anxiety was still there, but Ros mentally gave him credit for trying.

"It's only because I - " he floundered to a halt. "Well, you - you're important to me, that's all."

"I'm your boss. I should bloody well hope so." Ros made the comment as flippantly as she could. She wasn't absolutely sure what Lucas might have been about to say when he so abruptly changed his mind, but she had her suspicions, and a sudden wave of panic told her she didn't want them confirmed. _Certainly_ not now. _Give me hidden uranium any day of the week._ _That_ kind of explosive material she could handle.

She swiped her card through the reader, stepped through the pods, and saw Harry and Callum Reed waiting.

"Ready?" she asked briskly.

"Yep." Callum responded with his usual crisp confidence. "Legend's done, paperwork's ready. Transmitters up and running." He held up a small camera. "For taking happy snaps of safety infringements - "

"And what's that?" Ros demanded, pointing to the other device he held.

"Measures air quality." The technical specialist grinned. "Officially. Geiger counter's hidden inside. We're pretty good at this game."

_It isn't a sodding game. _Ros was about to turn on him when Harry quietly took her arm and guided her into his office.

"Are you going to be all right with him?" he enquired.

Through the office window, Ros could see that Lucas had joined Callum and was ostensibly examining the Geiger counter. But he, not Callum, was doing the talking, and from the hardness of his expression, Ros could make a pretty accurate guess at what he was saying. She allowed herself a slight smile. Lucas North wasn't the softie that his charm sometimes fooled people into assuming him to be. By the time he'd finished with Callum, the techie would be taking this seriously - and then some.

"Yes, of course." She shrugged. "He's good, Harry, got a brain on him." She gave a wry smile. "Sometimes, it's nearly as big as his mouth."

The lines around Harry's eyes crinkled, but he quickly became serious again. "We'll be listening, but you've got full discretion, Ros. If you need to, don't hesitate; call in police back-up. I've had enough of tiptoeing about like bloody Nureyev with bunions. That damned parade's just round the corner, and we're running out of time." She nodded. "But be careful. _Both _of you." His hand patted her shoulder in a gentle gesture of encouragement. "Right lass, get going."

oOoOoOo

It was a long drive to the district in the north of the city where Mamnoon Hamid's haulage business was located, and Ros put Callum, alias David Winters, junior inspector at the HSE, behind the wheel. She had expected a stream of his usual witticisms, but the technical specialist was unusually subdued. Ros was surprised, but since his silence gave her time to think about the forthcoming confrontation, not displeased. He finally spoke as the shabby area slowly began to take on an Oriental flavour, with veiled women drifting down the roads, and heaped sacks of rice, lentils and spices spilling from tiny grocers' shops onto the pavements.

"You reckon we'll manage to nail this bugger, boss?"

"If we do our jobs properly," Ros said tautly. Many MI-5 officers still harboured a grudge for the way Hamid had so neatly avoided jail in 2005, and she was no exception.

Callum changed gears with a crunch that threw her against her seatbelt. He swore. "Sorry. Friend of mine was on one of those trains. Lost the sight of one eye. Never been the same. Bloody scandal, the way he got off."

Ros glanced sideways at him. His face reflected the intensity of feeling in his voice, and for the first time she noticed a similarity to Adam – not just because of the fair hair and blue eyes, but because of that intensity; that kind of passion had been a feature of absolutely everything Adam said or did. Up until now she had considered Callum clever and competent – and cynically uninvolved in his work. For the first time, she felt some empathy with him.

"Yeah, well he's a slippery bastard." She glanced out of the window. "Next left. Don't let it get personal. He'll use that. And remember he's just a link in the chain here. If we can snare him too, that's a bonus, but we're trying to stop a bombing. So we keep focused on the main goal of the operation. That's the way we'll come out on top. Understand?"

She had made her response deliberately brusque. The influence of a vengeful father, and the atrocities she had seen over twenty years in the security services had long since eroded any disapproval of personal vendettas Ros might have had, but there was a time and a place for them, and this wasn't either. "Here we are. You ready?"

Callum swung into the car park. He grinned, then winked with something like his usual mischief, and for once the gesture didn't get under her skin. "Yes ma'am." He pointed at a flock of pigeons perched on a telegraph wire. "Let's see if we can find a cat to put among that little lot."

The warehouse, Ros observed, was in fact two, one piled high with crates and containers, the other revealing five enormous juggernaut lorries with their rear doors flapping open like the mouths of hungry whales. She led the way to what was obviously an office building, tapped on the door and walked in.

"Good morning," she said pleasantly to the startled young woman in a shalwar kameez who looked up from her computer. "Gillian Kenworthy, Health and Safety. This is my colleague, David Winters." Both held up their ID cards; neither missed the quick flash of alarm on the young woman's face. "You should have been notified that we were carrying out random inspections in this area this week?"

"Oh. Oh dear. Yes … perhaps – I don't remember. May I see your card, please?" Obligingly, Ros gave it to her. "I see … well, I should really get clearance from the site manager - "

"Please do," Ros invited.

" I – he is not here at the moment. Perhaps you could come back?"

"I don't think so." Ros gave a tight-lipped smile. "We _are_ authorised by law to carry out these inspections; you should - " she looked disapprovingly around the messiness of the office, "_somewhere –_ have a copy of the regulations. We'll just get on with the job while you contact him."

She half-turned, and the secretary scrambled to her feet. "I'm sorry, but I must check with your office first – standard procedure."

Ros raised an eyebrow. "Be my guest. The numbers on that card."

She tapped her foot impatiently as the girl made the call, which would be answered by Ruth at the Grid. The loudspeaker was on, and they both listened impassively as Ruth, in perfect civil servant mode, confirmed their names and ID numbers. Ros noted with interest that the secretary also asked for a physical description; Mr Hamid was a suspicious little soul.

When she had finished, the young woman hesitated. "I will call our manager, Mr Ali, to guide you."

Ros smiled. "Very kind. Just let him know we'll be in the warehouse." Before the flustered girl could invent any more delaying tactics, she waved Callum towards the door.

"She's on the phone," Callum murmured as they headed briskly for the warehouse. "Won't be long before we've got company."

"Good," Ros said. "Then let's find something for them to get excited about. Lorries first."

There didn't seem to be anyone around, so Callum handed the camera to Ros and hoisted himself into the back of the first one. Ros started prowling around the walls, and after a few minutes, smiled with grim satisfaction when she found two electrical sockets that seemed to be coming away from the wall, revealing bare - and fraying – wires. She photographed them, and a rusting fire extinguisher that a rap of her knuckles proved to be empty. Callum was searching the third lorry, and Ros examining the vehicle's tyres, which, to her delight, looked to be in less than first-class condition, when a voice said: "Mrs Kenworthy?"

Ros looked round. The man standing behind her was tall, with a dark skin, hooked nose and furious expression.

"Mr Ali?" When he jerked his head, she stood up. "Good morning. I explained to your secretary - "

"Fatima informed me. This is private property, Mrs Kenworthy; courtesy would dictate awaiting my guidance before starting on your … snooping."

Ros held his gaze. "Fortunately, I've already managed to find two fire hazards and a pair of seriously worn HGV tyres without it, Mr Ali." She raised her voice. "Mr Winters!" Callum's head emerged enquiringly from the back of the third lorry. "Everything in order?"

"Yep!" Callum gave a thumbs-up gesture, their agreed signal for finding any radioactive traces, and Ros's pulse skipped upwards as he jumped down and joined them. "Morning, Mr Ali." He gave an engaging smile. "But of a hum in that lorry; what'd it carry last?"

"Chemicals. From Eastern Europe." The manager glared. "I must insist -"

"Should have been a bit more careful in the way they packaged them then," Callum said cheerfully. "Fumes in there could cause all kinds of respiratory problems. Skin burns too, if there was any spillage. Your workers got personal protective equipment? Gloves, masks, and all?"

From the manager's expression, Ros guessed that the answer to that would probably be a 'no'. Callum's breeziness, and the fact that she was scribbling notes seemed to infuriate him further.

"There has never been a major health and safety incident at this site, Mr Winters."

_Neat._ Ros smiled. "That's good to hear. And thank you for reminding me, Mr Ali; we'll need to see your records of accidents,_ minor_ incidents, etc. I wonder if you could instruct your secretary?"

His face congested with rage, he flicked on his mobile phone and moved a few feet away. Ros, watching him, murmured to Callum: "How strong?"

"Strong enough. It was there all right. When Ruth and Khalida checked his records they said he was trading with a chemical factory in Minsk. Several substances involved, but all meant to be licit."

Ros grunted. "Go on." She gestured to the second warehouse. "I'll hold him up; give you a few minutes." She would have bet her next month's salary that Mr Ali was calling Mamnoon Hamid rather than the secretary. As Callum swiftly disappeared, Mr Ali finished his conversation, and Ros consulted her notes.

"Mr Ali, just let me show you a few little problems here, if I might." She smiled. "It's departmental policy for us to take a fully transparent approach to these inspections." She drew him back firmly towards the lorries, pointing out the infringements she had seen before, and adding a few more as her eyes caught sight of a large fissure crawling down the inside wall and a patch of damp spreading dangerously close to a large fuse box. Mr Ali's dark eyes glittered with suppressed rage at every note she took, but Ros noticed that he was looking surreptitiously around for Callum. Finally, he snapped.

"Where is your colleague?"

"Checking over your second warehouse," Ros said amiably. "It's also departmental policy to use our limited resources with the utmost efficiency, Mr Ali. Shall we join him?"

She heard the hubbub before it became visible; a babble of voices using a language she didn't understand, but guessed to be Urdu. Callum was trying unsuccessfully to bring order to a gaggle of what Ros assumed were workers. They sounded, and looked, angry, and as she and the manager entered, one of them gave Callum a shove that sent him reeling against one of the stacked containers.

"_Oi_!" Her voice echoed under the high ceiling, bouncing off the metal containers. "Leave him!" She turned on the manager. "Mr Ali, I will _not_ have my teams harassed! Please remind these people that assault is a criminal offence!"

Mr Ali looked as if he would have liked to goad them on, but sullenly he shouted something, and the men backed off as Ros marched up to them.

"Are you all right, David?"

"Fine." Callum straightened. "Lot of problems here though, boss. Air quality in here's bad." He held up his disguised Geiger counter. "High level of dust particles." He gestured at the group of workers. "None of these guys have protective clothing or masks. Or hard hats. Not too many of them seem to speak English, either."

Ros mentally decoded his little speech. She knew that 'dust particles' meant a radiation reading, but he wasn't actually wrong in the literal sense, either. The building was dank and there _was_ dust in the air; she could feel her chest tightening from inhaling it. As the thought came to her, one of the workers hawked noisily and spat, and she decided to pick up Callum's other hint.

"Mr Ali, are these workers local?"

"From the local community, yes." Ali answered without hesitation, but Ros thought she saw something in his eyes. She coughed, and tried to ignore the slight wheeze she heard on the end of it.

"All of them?"

"Some are immigrants from Bangladesh and Pakistan." He glared. "This is not a health and safety matter, Mrs Kenworthy."

"It is if they're illegals, Mr Ali," Callum chimed in. "And wherever they're from, there's an unsafe condition here; they've no protective clothing, and I've yet to see any safety equipment or information."

The manager's phone chose that moment to ring. As he answered it in Urdu, Ros cursed Khalida's absence. Ali barked something at one of the workers, snapped at Callum, "He will show you," and walked out, still talking on the phone.

Callum and Ros followed one of the Asians between two towering walls of boxes and pallets of cargo. The effect was claustrophobic, and for the first time, Ros was thankful Lucas wasn't there. She coughed again. Her chest was becoming painful, and the damp chill of the warehouse was seeping under her coat. She let herself drop back as they reached the far end of the building, and swiftly dosed herself with salbutamol. In doing so, she spotted a sliver of muddy yellow light slicing through the gloom from a half-open door. Curiously, she moved silently towards it, and almost gagged on the foul smell that drifted out. Holding a hand over her mouth, she peered into a windowless room about twelve feet square. Filthy mattresses and blankets carpeted the floor. A viciously malodorous bucket stood in one corner, and in the other, an ancient paraffin heater that would be both a fire risk _and, _in a room without ventilation, a possible source of carbon monoxide poisoning.

_You bastard._ Either Mamnoon Hamid _was_ using illegals and had been keeping them in this hovel, or … perhaps … _could_ it be?

"David!" Her voice cracked on the shout and she rubbed her chest impatiently. "Over here!" She forced herself to go further in and search through the grime. At the thud of footsteps she turned.

"Look at this. What the hell's been -" She stopped at the sight of Mr Ali, accompanied by the portly, well-dressed figure of Mamnoon Hamid.

"Going on here? I may well ask you the same question, Mrs Kenworthy."

Ros pointed behind her. "This – whatever it is – is a flagrant violation of Health and Safety regulations. And I'm afraid I shall have to report it as such – unless you can give us a fully satisfactory explanation, Mr Hamid."

The Pakistani looked around as Callum skidded into view. He took one glance into the room and threw Mamnoon Hamid a look of utter disgust. Hamid waved a dismissive hand at the nervous, gabbling little Bangladeshi pursuing him, and turned his gaze on Ros.

"Mrs Kenworthy, I'm sure you wouldn't want me to waste both your time and mine with explanations. It is hardly likely that your employers would be satisfied with any words that came from my lips … is it?"

"Health and Safety - " Callum began, and stopped as two men loomed out of the shadows and stood silently close behind him.

"Shut up." Hamid didn't move his eyes from Ros as he spoke. "Rose Court has nothing to do with this. Thames House, possibly. Isn't that so, Mrs Kenworthy?"

Ros stared straight back at him poker-faced, and played for time. Harry would be getting this loud and clear. She prayed he would act on it – quickly. "Mr Hamid, I have already noted violations of fire regulations, unsafe wiring, technical issues with some of your vehicles, and an inadequately trained and equipped workforce. I have requested your Health and Safety ledgers, which have not been forthcoming. My colleague and I have been subjected to harassment and aggressive behaviour, and this room would suggest that you have been exploiting illegal immigrants. If you wish to avoid a large fine, your vehicles being impounded for further examination, and possible prosecution, I suggest your company shows a greater willingness to co-operate with this inspection. And that it does so quickly, or I shall be obliged to call in the police."

"Shall you indeed?" There was something opaque and snake-like about the man's eyes now. When he moved, it was with the speed of a striking rattler, and so fast that Ros didn't have time to dodge the blow that knocked her off her feet. She heard Callum yelling abuse as she went sprawling, pain searing from beneath her ribs. Her vision was blurred, but she could hear the sounds of a struggle and the bellow of Mamnoon Hamid's voice. She scrabbled for purchase against the wall, but slumped back again, swamped by a tsunami of pain and dizziness. Hands seized her, but she could only make the feeblest of efforts to pull herself free. She was dragged a few feet and then thrown face down like an discarded rubbish sack; the foetid stench that rose up around her told her that she was in the room she had been investigating. Wheezing for breath, she managed to roll over. There was a cacophony of noise all around her, yelling voices and what she thought was the sound of shots. Her fuzzy vision cleared just enough for her to identify Hamid Mamnoon's face, blurred but contorted with fury, looming over her.

"A gift for your secret police." He levelled a gun on her. "_Bitch._"

She heard the crack, but it was muffled by a weight that crashed painfully down on top of her. Had she had sufficient breath, Ros would have screamed with the pain it caused, but all she could manage was a faint whimper. Her consciousness was ebbing when she felt someone grasp her arms, but this time the grip was gentle, and the crushing weight was lifted from her.

"Ros. Ros!" Dazed and disoriented, she was eased into a semi-prone position and held there by strong arms. Her lungs felt as if they were bursting, but then she felt her inhaler being squirted into her mouth. After the second puff the suffocating constriction eased somewhat, and Ros sucked greedily at the air she so desperately needed.

"You're all right." Lucas's voice was almost drowned by the combined multilingual yells of anti-terrorist police, Mamnoon Hamid, and the warehouse workers. "Take it easy, Ros, you're all right. We've got the bastard."

Ros, her vision finally back to normal, managed to raise her head enough to see a fiercely protesting Mamnoon Hamid being manhandled away by two black-clad CO-19 officers.

"Are you in pain?" Lucas pushed her dishevelled hair gently off her face.

"Bruised. N - nothing worse … I think." Ros took a harsh, shuddering breath, and flinched at the pain from her ribs. "Wh … what the hell – hit me?"

She saw Lucas gulp. "Ros, I – I - " he stopped as a CO-19 officer shouted his name. "Yeah! Ros, hang on, just – don't move, I'll be back." He hurried out. Ros steadied herself, turned painfully towards the door to determine where he had gone, and saw Callum's body lying a few feet from her.

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading! Please review! _


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Does that hurt?"

_It'll bloody well hurt__ you__ if you do it again._ Ros bit her lip, thankful that her prone position on the bed enabled her to hide her expression. As the doctor lifted his hands from where they had been carefully probing her upper back muscles, she said curtly and untruthfully, "No."

"Hmm," came the reply. "Sit up then please, Miss Myers."

Cautiously, Ros did so, and was furious with herself for the grunt of pain that contradicted her. The doctor shot her a wry look, but contented himself with placing an uncomfortably cold stethoscope against her chest. "Breathe in, please. Out … in." He made a clicking noise with his tongue, and repeated the exercise from behind. "Inhale, please. Good, release …" He lifted her wrist and held it, one eye on his watch, then gave her another penetrating look. "All right. You can get dressed now. You could help yourself if you'd follow the national trend and eat too much you know," he said dryly, as she did so.

Ros felt her eyes stinging, and made a show of fiddling with the zip of her jacket to give her time to compose herself. Callum had said almost exactly the same thing, and she – _you useless, sentimental bloody prat, Myers – _had reacted in almost exactly the same way. At the sight of his motionless body she had felt faint from the dread of being responsible for _another_ team member's death. When the technician had blinked his eyes open and weakly mumbled something about how a bit of decent flab would have offered him a more comfortable landing, she had actually succumbed to tears on duty for the first time since being forced to shoot Jo Portman. She yanked the zip up. There was only one way to deflect the lecture she knew was otherwise coming, and besides, she wanted to know.

"Where's my colleague?" she asked abruptly.

The doctor's face flushed at her rudeness, but then he sighed. As Ros was aware, this small private hospital was paid a handsome retainer to provide emergency medical treatment as and when required to MI-5 field officers. This wasn't Ros's first visit, and over the years she had gained notoriety for the abrasive ingratitude with which she reluctantly tolerated the care given to her. Doctor Mainwaring clearly knew when a cause was lost.

"Mr Reed is downstairs being stitched up by my colleague, Mr Rajaratnam. He was lucky; the bullet passed straight through his shoulder. I gather from Vijay, however, that he doesn't seem excessively grateful for his good fortune - a trait he would appear to share with you, Miss Myers." A faint smile crossed his face, but it disappeared almost immediately as Ros coughed and involuntarily clutched a hand to her ribs in the process. "I don't suppose you'd _listen_ for once if I told you to get a taxi home and take 48 hours sick leave, would you?"

_Not unless the terrorists pull a sickie too._ There was a slight metallic taste of blood in Ros's mouth. She ignored it, swallowed back another cough and shook her head. "I'm on an op."

"What you're _on_ is a very slippery slope." The doctor turned from his desk, and held out two pills and a glass of water. "Take these painkillers - and two more every four hours." Ros held up her hand in refusal. "_Miss Myers_! That is_ not_ a request, and the alternative is my admitting you to this hospital for two days bed rest without the option!"

"Harry won't - " Ros began as the pills were thrust into one hand and the glass into the other.

"Harry's seen your last two medical assessments, and he'll do whatever I say." He glared at her until Ros reluctantly swallowed the tablets and accepted the box he gave her. "You took a haymaker of a punch, you've got two cracked ribs, and you're going to be sore as hell. Long, hot baths, plenty of arnica cream, and until you're healed, no more Bionic Woman. Damn it, budget cuts or not, you're not the only competent field officer in Section D."

_No._ She had to admit that. Lucas had taken command in the warehouse with a confident authority she had never seen him display before, ordering the CO-19 officers to arrest Mamnoon Hamid and his manager, securing the site, and then summoning an ambulance to dispatch her and Callum to the hospital. As Ros was being helped into the vehicle she had overheard him on the phone to Harry, arranging for Special Branch to get a warrant to search Hamid's home. She could picture the frenetic activity up on the Grid now, and could barely restrain her impatience to become a part of it. But first she had to check on Callum.

She found her colleague perched uncomfortably on a treatment table. The little Sri Lankan doctor whom Ros remembered from accompanying Adam here for checks after section D had by the skin of their teeth, managed to contain an accidental release of a weaponised virus, was dressing and strapping his right shoulder and upper arm. He looked round as she tapped on the door.

"Ah, Miss Myers. How long have we been telling Mr Harry that he should not be letting you out into the field?"

Ros felt a rush of anger. "Mr Rajaratnam, I'm perfectly able - "

"Oh yes, yes, no doubt." He snipped off a length of bandage. "But every time Mr Harry sends you out he jolly well doubles my workload, you see."

Callum snorted with laughter. Ros turned her glare on him, and then remembered what Lucas had told her; that Callum had stopped the bullet by deliberately throwing himself between her and Mamnoon Hamid's gun. He might have left her with two cracked ribs, and lungs that felt like a bicycle pump with a hole in it, but she owed him her life.

"Well I can relieve you of some of it," she said stiffly. "I've come to collect Mr Reed."

"Oh dear me, no." The doctor finished his work, and began to prepare a syringe. Ros hurriedly looked away. "No, no, no. Mr Reed will be staying with us for forty-eight hours, Miss Myers. In case of infection. The wound appears clean, but there is always a risk of blood poisoning."

Callum scowled. "Come on, Doc. I run that one every time the Boss here bites my head off." He winked at Ros. "It's boring, just sitting in hospital."

"Not at all." The doctor tidied up and washed his hands. "On Monday you will have a fine view of the Olympic parade passing right under your window. Now," he added briskly, "I will go and arrange for a room. You wait here."

There was an awkward silence after he bustled out. Finally, Callum broke it.

"Sorry to upset you, Boss." Ros raised a puzzled eyebrow. "Well, I know you were disappointed – getting all weepy when you realised I hadn't made a heroic sacrifice after all." He gave a slight, unusually diffident smile, and Ros realised that he was almost as embarrassed by the situation as she was. Grateful for his flippancy, she responded in like vein.

"Can't have everything. I'll learn to live with it." She swallowed and shrugged awkwardly. "Thanks, anyway."

Callum grinned. "Pleasure, boss. Things you have to do in this job to get two days off." Then the smile slid from his face. "What happened - afterwards?"

Ros swiftly brought him up to date. The young man grimaced. "We need a break. Fast." He whistled in frustration. "Can't Harry threaten to leak some embarrassing information about the Gnome? Or talk to Dick bloody Whittington over there in City Hall? Stop that sodding parade and give us more time?"

_That, or bludgeon something out of Hamid._ Ros doubted that anything would change Towers's mind, but Callum's suggestion of blindsiding him by appealing to the Mayor might not be a bad idea. _Desperate situations and all that._

"Good idea," she acknowledged. "We can try." She strove awkwardly for a sympathetic tone and, as usual, missed by a country mile. "Get some rest and let that heal."

"Yes ma'am." Callum gave an ironic salute with his left hand. To his credit – and perhaps out of a sense of self-preservation - he refrained from suggesting that she might follow her own advice, and Ros left in a hurry before he could.

oOoOoOo

She took a taxi back to Milbank, and, in deference to the pain – temporarily subdued by the tablets, but still lurking – in her chest, took the lift straight up to the Grid. Harry's office was deserted, and as Ros cast her eyes around the room, she could see neither Lucas, Khalida, nor Chen Liu. She was just about to make a reluctant approach to a junior officer to find out the reason for their collective disappearing trick, when Ruth Evershed emerged from the tech suite. She saw Ros, swiftly changed direction, and met her by the section chief's desk.

"Ros, are you all right?" She looked worriedly at the purplish bruising now spreading like a red wine stain down her colleague's face and jaw. "Shouldn't you be - "

"I'm fine," Ros said impatiently. "Where is everyone?"

For a second, Ruth looked indignant, but she wisely deferred to the irritation on the other woman's face. "Harry and Lucas are questioning Hamid." She pointed back towards the tech suite, "Khalida's listening in, and Chen's in there too, filling in for Callum. Have you seen him, Ros? How is he?"

"Dented. He'll be back in a couple of days." Without thinking, Ros reached up to hang her jacket on a nearby coat-stand, and cried out at the stab of pain the gesture caused. Ruth caught the garment and hung it up.

"You don't look well," she said crisply. "I'll bring you some tea."

Ros shook her head and straightened from where she had been leaning heavily on her desk, one hand holding her ribcage.

"Ruth, stop fussing. Any developments?"

"Not much," Ruth admitted unwillingly. "Chen's been pulling up everything we can find from CCTV in the area around the warehouse in the days since Pemberton disappeared. He's had a couple of juniors scouring it with him. Nothing so far."

"Websites?"

Ruth shook her head. "If anything, they've gone quieter than usual."

Ros tensed. Any change to regular patterns of behaviour was bad news. She coughed, and flinched. Ruth shifted uneasily. "Look, I was going to make some coffee anyway - "

"_Ruth,_ for God's sake will you - "Ros's eruption was cut short by another spasm of coughing, and this time the analyst seized her by the shoulders and manoeuvred her forcibly down onto a chair.

"I'll fetch someone." She was turning away when Ros wheezed: "Don't … don't you … bloody well - dare." She fumbled into the pocket of her jeans for her inhaler and used it twice. Ruth's eyes widened in shock.

"Ros, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Not a - a word." Ros took several deep breaths, and wiped her lips on a tissue. Ruth had what she thought of as her 'bloodhound expression' on – all mournful eyes and drooping ears – and tea and sympathy was the last thing either of them had time for. She waved towards the water cooler, and thankfully drained the cup that Ruth hastily brought her.

"What's that?" She looked up as Ruth pointed at a split and twisted piece of laminated plastic on the floor beneath the coat stand, and stooped to retrieve it. "Looks like it fell out of your pocket." She held it out.

_Bloody hell. _Ros stared at the fragment. She had intended to give it to Lucas at the warehouse, but she had been so dazed and shaken that it had completely slipped her mind. She took it from Ruth's hand and held it carefully by the edges. In the gloom of that vile little room, she hadn't been entirely sure. Now, under the harsh neon of the Grid, the jagged edges of the _London 2012_ logo were unmistakable, despite the filth smeared all over it.

"Ruth, can you get me a magnifying glass and one of those little plastic bags?"

Ruth scurried away. When she returned with them, Ros carefully peered around the dust, grime, and what she queasily suspected was excrement. Ruth craned over her shoulder and slowly spelled out those letters that were visible.

" – _OMPETI … NG – NG … DOM?"_

Ros cursed a particularly opaque blob of dirt. "_E .. M, _is it_? BE .. R_." _As in bloody pEMBERton._ She looked up at Ruth, whose eyes were gleaming with sudden understanding.

"Competitor?" she suggested in excitement. "And that NG – DOM – United Kingdom? Ros, where did you _find_ this?"

_In a particularly putrid corner of Hamid's lair._ Ros slipped it into the bag and sealed it, then got to her feet. "I need to tell Harry and Lucas."

"We're filming and recording. Come on!" Ruth led the way to the tech suite almost at a run, with Ros trailing behind her like a distance athlete who'd been lapped once too often. Chen Liu let out a whoop at the sight of her, and Khalida swivelled from her screen with a dazzling smile, but Ros could see that both were searching expectantly for Callum, too. Swiftly, she reassured them, and then turned to the images from the interrogation room. Harry was leaning towards Mamnoon Hamid on the other side of the table. His hands were tightly clasped, which Ros knew usually meant that he was trying to prevent himself from using them to throttle his suspect. Lucas sat next to him, rigidly upright, and with an expression of utter revulsion on his face. Ros swung herself onto a table.

"How's it going, Khalida?"

The young woman shook her head. "Two hours, and nothing, Ros. So far he denies everything. He has been here before. He knows every tactic in the book."

"He'll stall until he knows it's too late for us to stop the attack." Chen's usual cheerful demeanour had vanished, Ros noted; he was clearly boiling over with frustration.

"And then give us just as much as he thinks will allow him to cut himself a deal," Ruth added.

Khalida hissed something none of them could understand, but one glance at her face obviated the need for translation. "If he lives that long. He keeps taunting Harry. I don't know how Harry hasn't biffed him one."

Ros quickly controlled her smile at the quaintness of the phrase. Just occasionally, Khalida would sound like an official from the Indian Raj.

"We need something we can throw him off-balance with," Chen said. "Something he won't be able to deny."

"I might be able to manage that." Ros uncurled her fist, showed them the broken piece of Alexander Pemberton's Olympic Games I.D. card and explained where she'd found it. The younger officers exchanged excited glances.

"So they held him there? Then he is a hostage to them, not a sympathiser?" Khalida actually sounded relieved. To her, Ros reflected, the idea of a top British athlete betraying his country - his country _by right,_ not by adoption as it was for her – to the people she loathed and despised most in the world, would have been anathema, even harder to swallow than for the rest of them.

"Yeah, looks like he's being coerced," she answered.

"Into what?" Chen asked. "Carrying the bomb himself? Planting it? Or telling them how _they_ could?"

_Any of the above. _"That's exactly what we need to know."

"And you think Hamid will tell you?" Ruth sounded sceptical. Ros felt her eyes narrow at the slight emphasis on the word '_you_', and the implication that if Ruth's beloved Harry couldn't drag the information from the man, then there was no way he'd confess to Rosalind 'Battleaxe' Myers.

"Do you have a better idea, Ruth? Take him round the _Taj Mahal_ in Pimlico and soften him up with a vindaloo, maybe?" Still smarting from the insinuation, she turned back to Khalida. "Call Lucas. Tell him I'm on my way."

Khalida immediately reached for her phone, and Ros slid off the table. On the screen she saw Lucas flick a glance up towards the camera planted in the wall and simultaneously reach for his phone. "Chen, go through those CCTV recordings again. Shanghai anyone you need._ Somewhere_ there must be a sighting. Alex Pemberton's six foot three, white, blond and built like a tank. He's not easy to disguise over there."

"Ruth." She beckoned the analyst to follow her out. "I want you to get on to CO-19 at the warehouse. Get their forensic people onto those mattresses and blankets. I want proof positive of Pemberton's presence in there that will stand up in court. And get the local police on door-to-door with pictures of him."

Ruth blinked. "But Ros, the Home Secretary – the publicity."

Ros turned her most menacing glare on her. She knew she was taking a risk; news that the police were looking for Alexander Pemberton could go public faster than you could say 'tweet' these days, and if ill-informed speculation reached the bloody Saudis, Towers's beloved oil deal could quickly be up there with King Charles's coronation and the resurgence of the Euro. At the same time, she remembered Harry's saying they were running out of time. _I've had enough of tiptoeing about like bloody Nureyev with bunions. _If the attack took place, the deal, not to mention God knows how many lives, would be lost anyway. But if they stopped it, Towers would be in no position to challenge what they'd done.

"Think up a cover story," she snapped tautly. "No names. Tell them he's a missing person with mental problems or a foreign visitor to the Games, gone walkabout. Use your imagination. They're not exactly rabid rowing fans in that part of town; I doubt half the population could even recognise him." As Ruth still looked dubious, she flared: "For God's sake, I'll bring you Harry's approval with a waxed seal and ribbon later. Get on with it!"

Clutching the fragment of plastic card, she went down to the basement and hurried along the corridor leading to the interrogation room; the surge of adrenaline was doing far more than Dr Mainwaring's analgesics to dampen the discomfort of having played inflatable mattress to Callum's high jumper. Lucas was pacing tensely up and down outside the door, but his face lit up in a radiant smile when he saw her.

"Are you feeling OK?" His fingertips skimmed the bruising on her face.

"Of course I am." Ros nonetheless stood just out of hugging reach for the sake of her ribs. She held out her trophy. "Look at this."

Lucas's jaw dropped. When she told him where it came from, a smile that Ros could only have described as having something positively evil about it spread across his face. He brushed his lips over the unbruised side of her face.

"Join the party." He ushered her into the interrogation room, went up to Harry and murmured into his ear. Ros locked eyes with Mamnoon Hamid's arrogant stare. A contemptuous smile appeared on the Pakistani's face.

"Mrs Kenworthy. Well now, that's a right nice surprise." Now that he was away from his own community, his Yorkshire accent had returned in force.

Ros kept her face completely impassive. _I've been wound up by people more expert than you, you bastard._ Harry turned, smiled at her, and gestured her to a chair alongside his own. Lucas resumed his seat and placed the incriminating card on the table between himself and Hamid.

"This was found in your warehouse," he said flatly. "In the same room where it seems that you intended to shoot my colleague." He glanced at Ros, then held it up in front of Mamnoon Hamid. "Alexander Pemberton's London 2012 I.D. card. Would you care to comment on how it got there?"

The eyes of both Ros and Harry were glued to the Pakistani, and both saw the slight flicker in his eyes.

"My manager is in charge of the day-to-day running of the warehouse, not me." Hamid shrugged. "Perhaps you should ask him."

"I'm asking you," Lucas said sharply.

Hamid smiled smugly. "Aye, well frankly, I'm telling you that I don't know."

Lucas's eyes flashed. "Equally frankly, Mr Hamid, that's bullshit."

Harry Pearce slammed his hand down on the table, making both of his colleagues and Mamnoon Hamid jump. He shot to his feet, placed his hands flat on the table and leaned down so close to Hamid that for a second Ros thought he was intending to give the man a Glasgow kiss.

"Well since 'frankness' is the order of the day, let me up the stakes, you repulsive little piece of dog-shit." For a second Hamid froze, and Ros wasn't surprised; Harry in full flow even frightened her. "I've met men like you before. Northern Ireland was full of them."

"Aye, another of your upright British killing fields!" Hamid spat back.

"That's right." Harry was almost whispering. "And I did a lot of killing there. Killing of scum like you, who goad and push and stir up gullible, ignorant kids to risk their lives and take the lives of others – and in the process, fill the pockets and massage the massive egos of pathetic little windbags like you who would otherwise have remained nonentities for the rest of your sorry lives." When Hamid would have responded, he bellowed: "Shut your mouth, or all you'll get to put in it in the next seventy-two hours will be what you can chew off my knuckles!"

Ros shot a look at Lucas. For a man who had been on the receiving end of similar interrogation tactics, he looked singularly unperturbed; in fact a small smile was playing at the corners of his lips.

"You have no right to hold me for seventy-two hours," Hamid blustered, but he looked just slightly unsettled. "The Prevention of Terrorism Act - "

Harry gave a mockingly amazed look to first Lucas and then Ros. "Impressive. Need to know the ins and outs of it in your day job, do you? Well, I do. Your tedious little whines about the British Security Services being a bunch of lawless cowboys who ride roughshod over human rights, what was it you said – prejudiced, Godless, fascist, if I remember rightly? Well you're spot on. I'm all three when it comes to bastards like you – and proud of it. You can take your bloody complaints to the Sun, The Muslim Council of Great Britain, Amnesty International, and the Pitbull Terrier Rescue Society for all I care. You don't know who I am, who these people are, or even _where_ you are. Neither does your army of paid hoodlums or your rabble-rousing shyster of a solicitor. I can throw you in a cell as filthy and putrid as the one in which you held Alexander Pemberton. I can make you disappear _a la _Argentinian junta, I can muzzle the press, and you will never be heard of again. And I will. I will do it to you and to every damned member of your pampered little family unless you co-operate. I know you're working with Asif Iqbal Mahmood; you were seen in Brixton Mosque." The Pakistani's eyes flickered again. "Though he," Harry's lip curled in disdain, "was fighting Allah's righteous cause from underneath a woman's _burqa_, if I remember correctly. I _know _you kidnapped Alexander Pemberton. This," waving the card, "proves it. I know you've used his foolish escapades in Pakistan to blackmail him into aiding and abetting you into committing a terrorist outrage against the Olympic Parade, and you know I know. You don't have to say a word to us. Both of us know that too. But don't you dare – don't you even _think – _to doubt that I will do _exactly_ what I've said."

He straightened, and jerked his head at Ros and Lucas to indicate that they should leave with him. Mamnoon Hamid shouted at their retreating backs.

"You cannot win this battle!" He switched to Arabic, and Ros turned. _As for the unbelievers, neither their riches nor their children will in the least save them from God's judgement. They shall become fuel for the Fire. _She recognised the quote, cynically ripped from the beautiful, poetic language of the Quran that she had studied while working for her degree at Oxford. She had come to love it then, and bitterly resented the way in which men like this were twisting and scarring it beyond recognition. She too spoke in Arabic, and saw Hamid's shock at her fluency.

"Turn not your cheek away from people in scorn and pride, and walk not on earth haughtily; for God does not love anyone who acts proudly and boastfully. Be modest in your bearing and lower your voice; for the ugliest sound is the donkey's braying." She turned her back on him, walked out and slammed the door.

"Taste of his own medicine?" She could see Lucas was worried by the anger she knew had made the blood rush to her face – she could feel the bruising throbbing in protest – but he made the comment gently flippant to try and defuse it. She managed a smile back, observing that Harry's expression mirrored her own.

"What happens next, Harry?"

The answer was provided not in the order she had expected, but in the form of clattering feet coming down the stairs at the end of the corridor. Chen Liu shot round the corner and cannoned straight into Harry, who bounced off the wall like a squash ball, almost flattening the young Chinese on the rebound. Chen caught himself, blanched, and stuttered a breathless apology. Harry straightened up, smoothed his remaining hair, retrieved his tie from over his shoulder, and did up the three shirt buttons that had popped open under the impact. Ros shot one look at Lucas, who was literally quivering with the attempt to contain his laughter, and then both of them stared fixedly at the floor tiles.

"Chen, unless you're in training for the judo squad in Rio, what _exactly_ might you be about?" Harry enquired, with as much dignity as he could muster.

Chen glanced at the two SCOs and took a deep breath.

"The Home Secretary just rang, Harry. Sir Roger phoned him half an hour ago. Alexander Pemberton's turned up."

oOoOoOo

_Thanks for reading! Please review! :)_


	14. Chapter 14

_PPS stands for Parliamentary Private Secretary. About three chapters to go with this one now. Many thanks to everyone still reading, and especially to those who also review! :) Much appreciated.  
_

_Chapter Fourteen_

When Ros opened her eyes, the ceiling she was staring at was both unfamiliar and out of focus. She stretched out to her right for the glass of water she always left on the bedside table, and ended up flailing at fresh air, so she felt around in the other direction instead. Her fingers slithered over wrinkled sheets and crumpled pillows, both warm.

_Ah._ Now she remembered agreeing to go home with Lucas the previous night. Guiltily, she wondered how much rest he'd got. Forced to lie flat on her back because any other position hurt her ribs, she had been wakeful, and suspected that her occasional yelps of discomfort whenever she tried to change her position a little had disturbed him too.

With infinite care she levered herself up on her elbows, then awkwardly inched her way around until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Dr Mainwaring's description of her being 'sore as hell' had been pinpoint accurate, and now she was stiff as well. For a moment she just sat, flexing and easing her limbs and joints. The shadows were still deep in the bedroom, and when Ros checked her watch, she saw that it was only just past six-thirty; Lucas was playing the early bird. Perhaps his mind, like hers, was too preoccupied with the looming disaster the section faced to rest.

She eased on her bathrobe – she and Lucas both kept nightclothes and one spare working outfit at each other's flats for convenience, the closest Ros had come to formal acknowledgement of their relationship – and padded out of the room. The pain had subsided into a manageable discomfort, probably aided, she thought wryly, by still feeling a mild high from the doctor's bloody tablets. _Probably just as well._ If the developments of yesterday had been anything to go by, she was going to need to be pain-free and fully alert today.

She was heading for the kitchen when she spotted Lucas's silhouette on the terrace, outlined like a paper cut-out against the slowly lightening sky. When she slid the door open he looked round.

"Morning." Ros stepped out and shivered as the fresh, cool air slid probing fingers under her robe.

"Morning." He had obviously been deep in thought, but now he smiled. He looked indifferent to the chill, but then after eight years in Russia, Lucas's idea of cold was more extreme that most people's. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand, but he rubbed her back affectionately with the other. "How do you feel?" He tilted her chin to examine her face, and grimaced. "Ouch." His eyes darkened, and he muttered '_Svoloch_' under his breath.

"Cold." Ros's feet were bare, and the concrete under them was freezing. "And hungry,' she added, meaningfully.

The warmth of his smile scattered the storm clouds that had been gathering in his eyes. "Ah, well that I _can_ do something about. Come on."

He led the way into the kitchen, poured her a cup of coffee and set about making breakfast. Ros knew better than to offer help. If there _was_ such a thing as reincarnation, Lucas North should return to earth as a geriatric nurse. Once they had arrived home from the Grid, he had insisted on running her a bath, helped her to bathe, and massaged arnica cream into the sorest parts of her body with a patience and gentleness that many nurses whose 'care' Ros had experienced would be hard put to match. With anyone else, she would have felt humiliated and resentful, but Lucas's matter-of-fact kindness made the experience feel natural rather than embarrassing. By the time they had eaten a bowl of re-heated spaghetti Bolognese apiece and were lying in bed, Ros had almost forgotten that she had come close to taking a bullet between the eyes a few hours earlier. _Maybe he should have tried his TLC out on Callum as well._

The thought amused her, and Lucas smiled quizzically as he put a dish of muesli and a jug of fresh milk in front of her. "What's so funny?"

Ros told him as he removed two croissants from the microwave and placed them and some fresh fruit on the table. Lucas laughed.

"I prefer my blondes svelte. He's a bit on the bulky side for me."

_Tell me about it. _Ros drained her coffee. It was her favourite, Colombian, strong and bitter, and she felt her head clearing as it hit the spot. She often found herself touched by the thoughtful way Lucas remembered her preferences. The bathroom soap had been the same brand as she always used, too. He never made a fuss, but he always noticed.

"Why up so early?" she enquired. "Got an informant among the larks or something?"

He smiled briefly. "No, I was thinking about yesterday. You know how it is. Trying to find some bloody sense in it all."

_Oh yes, I know how it is all right. _She had lain awake while he slept, doing exactly the same thing and trying not to wake him by fidgeting. The sudden brief re-appearance of Alexander Pemberton had caused an abrupt 180 change of direction in the operation. Harry had ordered Mamnoon Hamid to be transferred under armed guard to Paddington Green police station and handed him into the custody of Special Branch interrogators. If time _had_ to be wasted on breaking down the man's arrogant obduracy, it wasn't going to be Section D's. He dispatched Chen Liu, in the guise of Sergeant Guowei Tang, post-haste to Collingham Square to interview Sir Roger Pemberton, but Chen returned two hours later deflated and apologetic. Alexander had stayed no longer than half an hour to shower and collect some clean clothes from the room he used when he stayed in London. His father had been impatient, cutting and dismissive of Tang's polite attempts to ascertain from where Alexander had come, or where he had been heading. Chen had received nothing beyond the information that Alexander was 'catching up with some old (unspecified) friends', and a scathing lecture from Sir Roger about police incompetence. He had, he reminded the sergeant contemptuously, told them from the start that his son's failure to communicate would probably be explained by some such casual behaviour, not that he could have expected either the sergeant or that '_blonde bimbo_' of an inspector to have remembered. Now, if he'd excuse him? and Chen had found himself outside on the pavement watching the Mercedes glide haughtily down the street and out of sight. Ros's blood pressure rose at the mere _thought_ of Sir Roger Pemberton.

"And did you?" she asked Lucas. "Any light bulb moments?"

Lucas sighed. "More like flickering candles." He raked a hand through his hair. "We can't send an army of plods out with Geiger counters searching for the uranium. It's where _they_ are, if he's still being held by them. If he isn't … if he's already been forced to help them plant it, he should at least know where the damned bomb is." He gestured in frustration. "But why hasn't he come to us, then? We _have_ to find him. Maybe he's in hiding … trying to … shit, I don't know. What do you think?"

Ros shook her head. The truth was, she didn't know _what_ to think. Harry, unwilling to put all his increasingly fragile eggs into the unstable basket of Mamnoon Hamid's cooperation, had ordered everyone to concentrate on the search for Pemberton and Asif Iqbal Mahmood. Ruth was virtually nailed to her desk, surfing the most vociferous jihadist websites, combing through the wispy stacks of hay for the tiniest glint of a hidden, coded needle, and Khalida and Chen had been instructed to squeeze dry every relevant asset they had. Lucas had spent the previous afternoon carrying out exhausting and time-consuming anti-surveillance manoeuvres before holding covert meetings with two publicly virulently anti-Western imams who had been bravely supplying MI-5 with information for several years. Rumours, gossip and speculation had trickled in steadily, but none of it brought any reliable sightings of either man. Meanwhile, Mamnoon Hamid sat in his high-security cell in Paddington Green like a malevolent little toad, armoured in his mocking silence, watching the flies buzz in increasing panic as the time ticked relentlessly down to the deadline he knew, but they didn't.

"I think we're going to need a sodding miracle," she said reluctantly at last.

Lucas nodded grimly. "Maybe something's come in overnight," he had left Harry on the Grid with the night shift. "Ruth was still trawling the websites, and Harry was keeping an eye on her - not that he isn't always." He smiled almost wistfully. "God knows why he hasn't got round to proposing again. They've been making sheep's eyes at each other ever since she came back. It would do him good to have someone to lean on."

"He's got an entire section to lean on," Ros said sardonically.

"Yeah, but not all forty-five of us are in love with him," Lucas pointed out. When she snorted, he said, "Come on, Ros. It would give him someone to go home to. Sometimes you need more than just an office full of colleagues, however okay they are."

Ros cast him a sideways glance. "If you say so." She finished her muesli and sliced up an apple. If that had been a hint, she wasn't taking it. She was fond of Lucas and grateful for his care, but while she valued both their partnership on the Grid and their friendship off it, she had no illusions. He was too much of a romantic, and easily manipulated by women. His own bitter comment about his allegedly being '_a pushover for any woman with big eyes and a good story_' had summed it up all too accurately. Ros still remembered the pain of watching Adam Carter dithering between his feelings for her and his attraction to Ana Bakshi; she wasn't about to expose herself to a possible repeat performance. Besides, her own record with men wasn't much better – witness the fate of the only three she had ever really cared for. She had always suspected that if the Bakshi woman had stayed around, she would have lost Adam to her eventually. Jack Coleville, for whom she had nursed a soft spot for years, had used her, betrayed her, and come sodding well close to shooting her, and her father, well. Harry and Ruth might be Romeo and Juliet, Darby and Joan or Podgy and Bliss (delete where appropriate) - she and Lucas would be Felix Unger and Jack Klugman all over again.

"Did I say something wrong?" She looked up, startled at how far she had allowed her thoughts to drift. Lucas looked apprehensive.

"No." She drained her coffee cup and got up. "Just irrelevant." _And there's only one way to make sure it stays irrelevant._ She pretended not to notice him wince. _It's for your own good. _"We need to get to work. Let's go."

oOoOoOo

Ros had expected that they would be the first to arrive on the Grid, and was surprised to find Chen Liu clearing the security checks as they came through the doors. The young Chinese looked shamefaced, and was less than his usual ebullient self; Ros guessed he was still angry with himself over his inability to obtain any useful information from Sir Roger the previous day. As they passed the cafeteria he offered to bring everyone some coffee, and Ros, knowing that he didn't want to take the lift with them, thanked him and let him do it.

Despite the early hour, the Grid was buzzing, and the Harry who greeted them at the pods reminded Ros eerily of Olympic Harry – unshaven, tieless, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and his wrinkles reminiscent of the ridges in a sandbank at low tide. Ruth was at his heels, loyal, dependable and oh, so bloody predictable.

"Morning," Ros said briskly. "Anything?"

"Rumours." The single growled word conveyed infinite fury and frustration. "If we're to believe half of them, the bastard's been seen praying in mosques, shopping in Harrods, leaving from Heathrow, arriving at Gatwick and moving into a mobile home in Clacton-on-Sea - probably all at once. And not so much as a bloody sniff of Pemberton since he left Collingham Place." He glanced over to where Chen, accompanied by Khalida, was emerging from the pods, both of them balancing armfuls of cardboard cups and paper bags of pastries. "Over here, you two! Meeting room."

He led the way, and tutted impatiently when the two junior officers delivered their loads and rushed out again to remove their outer clothing. Chen scampered back in as he was beginning to speak; Khalida, Ros noticed irritably, had stopped at her desk and was on the phone. She frowned as the young woman dropped suddenly into a chair. She looked shocked. Ros caught Lucas's eye and saw the same concern on his face as she felt herself. She was about to whisper to him to go and find out what was wrong when Khalida replaced the phone, jumped up and literally ran to the meeting room.

"Harry!" Normally she would never have countenanced interrupting him; now the words tumbled out of her like water from a broken main. "Harry, it is Dominic Hastings." Even as a red-faced Harry opened his mouth to ask the question, she provided the answer. "When the doctors went to do the morning round they found him dead."

"Dead how?" Ros cut through the collective indrawing of breath around the table.

Khalida gulped. "They say he had a heart attack."

"A healthy young man his age?" It was Lucas's voice, but Ros knew that the words could have come from any of them.

"What the hell happened to the police guard?" she demanded.

"It was withdrawn, Ros. Two days ago." Ruth made a helpless gesture. "Staffing. The Met needed the officers."

Ros looked towards Harry. "Do you want it checked out?" All of them knew that there was more than one way of inducing a heart attack and making it look perfectly natural.

He shook his head. "It's irrelevant now. Leave it to the Met." He tapped the end of his pen against his teeth. "Lucas, get onto the people protecting Lidiya Akayeva. And warn Paddington Green; they're not above sending their own to paradise early, either." Lucas strode out of the room. "Khalida, if you have an emergency procedure for warning that asset you had in Brixton – Aideed, was it? - then use it now." Khalida bit her lip, nodded, and hurried in Lucas's wake. Harry met Ros's eyes. "Insurance. They don't know how for sure much Hastings told us, so they're wiping out the traces. Getting rid of the evidence."

She nodded agreement. The world's ethnic and religious patchwork quilt of terrorists had long since embraced that Moscow Centre habit of cleaning up behind them, and used it as S.O.P. They weren't about to leave MI-5 an Olympic souvenir in the shape of potential trial witnesses.

"Harry?" Chen was shifting uneasily in his seat. "If Mahmood really _is_ mopping up, then Pemberton - "

"Will be on the list too,"Ros finished for him. She met Harry's eyes. "And if he is, that's our best chance of locating the bomb gone with him."

The silence that followed her words made the swish of the conference room doors sound almost sinister.

"Harry?" Lucas sounded tense. "Ruth's just had an alert from the news feed. Khalida's asset, Aideed, was one of a gang involved in a fight in Brixton last night." He didn't need to add the rest.

In the silence, Harry closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"Right, that's it." He shoved his chair back from the table. "We stop this damned parade. Chen, get back on the CCTV. Lucas, get Akayeva moved if you have to. Ros, follow me."

In the office, he waved her to a seat, moved behind his desk and picked up his telephone. "I need to speak to the Home Secretary urgently. Scrambled call." Ros gazed out of the window and watched Lucas, who was also on the phone, speaking rapidly and intently, a frown on his face. He glanced up, saw her watching him, and the tense lines of his face melted into a warm smile.

"Ros, how are you feeling now? Pain eased off a bit?"

Startled, Ros turned back to Harry. _God, what a couple of worry-guts. _Between him and Lucas, she could scarcely clear her throat without the pair of them wanting to hook her up to oxygen.

"Yeah, no problem." That wasn't a lie, actually; the combination of rest, the painkillers and the challenge of the operation had almost made her forget her discomfort. "I'm putting Callum on a bloody diet, though."

Harry smiled just as the telephone rang. He flicked on the loudspeaker so that she could hear. "Good morning, Home Secretary, it's Harry Pearce."

"Good morning, Mr Pearce." Ros and Harry frowned in simultaneous puzzlement; the voice echoing through the scrambler most certainly wasn't that of William Towers. "This is Sam Beckenbridge, Mr Towers's PPS."

Harry's mobile features knotted in exasperation. "I asked to be put through to the Home Secretary." Silently, Ros filled in the unspoken '_not his bloody bag-carrier'._

"Unfortunately, the Home Secretary won't be available for the next two days, sir." Ros watched the knots turning steadily redder. "Is there anything I might help you with?"

"Mr Beckenbridge, with all due respect, this is a security matter. An _urgent_ security matter, not one that can be dealt with by leaving a message with a middle-ranking official and waiting for a call back. You can help by telling me how I can get in contact with him – _now_."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir." The PPS had obviously been briefed on the need to keep cool when dealing with an angry Harry Pearce. "The Home Secretary is away, and I've been instructed that he is not to be reached by anyone until first thing on Tuesday."

Ros could scarcely believe her ears, and the expression on Harry's face suggested that while his ears were working perfectly, he had been temporarily deprived of the powers of speech. He looked at the phone receiver as if he thought it had been hacked by a practical joker with a particularly unamusing sense of humour.

"Away _where_?" he spluttered when he could finally get the words out.

"That's a confidential matter, Mr Pearce, for security reasons." The PPS sounded increasingly uncomfortable, but he wasn't yielding an inch.

"_Security considerations?!" _Harry exploded. "I am calling from the headquarters of the British _Security _Services, Mr Beckenbridge! Is that crystal clear, or do you need Danny Boyle to spell it out in fireworks for you?"

"It's perfectly clear, Mr Pearce, and I apologise for the inconvenience, but my job is - "

"If you persist in obstructing me, son, you won't_ have_ a job." Harry's notoriously limited capacity for tolerance of Whitehall and all its works had clearly been exceeded. "You have thirty seconds before I take this to higher levels."

For a moment Ros thought Beckenbridge had hung up. At last, reluctantly, the man said: "Mr Pearce, it is crucial that this is kept from the press - "

"It may surprise you to know that we have some experience in that respect," Harry snapped.

"Yes, yes of course. You see, the Home Secretary is having a minor operation on his bladder today. Nothing serious, a routine matter, but press speculation could be very harmful to Her Majesty's government, should anything leak."

_Unfortunate turn of phrase in the circumstances._ And the sooner this conversation was over the better, Ros thought, before Harry's blood pressure reached the danger zone.

Her wish was granted as he wound the call up with an expression of his hopes for William Towers's prompt recovery that sounded about as genuine as a three-pound coin. Then he slammed down the phone.

" '_Security considerations_'!" His snort would have done justice to a rutting warthog. "A dirty bomb in the heart of London, and they're more worried by the explosive potential of a bloody tweet about the Home Secretary's waterworks!"

Ros clicked her tongue in sympathy. She agreed with him – wholeheartedly – but this wasn't the right time to let Harry embark on one of his anti-politician tirades. Once he reached cruising speed, the flight was usually long-haul, and she was acutely aware that every minute wasted was a minute wasted to the terrorists' benefit.

"So what now?" she asked quickly. The obvious answer was Harry's own 'higher levels', but they both knew that the Prime Minister was out of the country at an EU summit in France. Ros certainly wasn't going to put her neck on the chopping block by suggesting that they brief his deputy; there was a reason why the man's unofficial code name in Section D, suggested by Callum Reed and gleefully approved by Harry, was 'Smuggins'. When Harry didn't answer immediately, she said: "There is one thing we could try."

Harry, who had begun a restless pacing of the office, nodded. "Go on."

Ros told him about Callum's idea of briefing the mayor about the threat. Harry pursed his lips doubtfully. She could understand his reservations. The mayor had a well-earned, much-publicised reputation as a buffoon, but Ros, who had met him once many years ago at a reception hosted by her father at the embassy in Moscow, knew that it was a deliberately crafted image. Underneath the clown was a savvy, highly intelligent man who wasn't afraid of making the occasional controversial decision. Yes, it was risky, but with the danger becoming more immediate with every hour that passed, they were fast running out of options.

"All right." Harry didn't sound convinced, but as he was about to go on, there was a knock on the door. With a mutter of irritation, he jerked it open and almost pulled Ruth Evershed off her feet. Ros watched the ensuing apology-laden soft shoe shuffle with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

"What is it, Ruth?"

Ruth glanced across in surprise, as if she hadn't noticed her. Most likely she hadn't_. _With Harry around, Ruth probably wouldn't notice if they were sharing the office with an entire counter-terrorist squad - _and_ its prey.

"Sorry," she said awkwardly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't." Harry patted her arm reassuringly as he spoke, then absently moved his hand to the small of her back and kept it there. Ros felt suddenly superfluous to requirements, and scrutinised a non-existent text on her mobile. "It's all right. What is it?"

"This afternoon's meeting to discuss the security arrangements for the parade," Ruth answered. "They've brought it forward to this morning. Ten o' clock at City Hall."

"Perfect," Harry said decisively. "We'll give it to them face to face." He smiled at the intelligence analyst. "Thanks, Ruth. Tell them Ros and I will be there."

Ruth returned the smile, and glanced at Ros. "If you're not feeling up to it, Ros … I could go, if you want."

_I don't want._ Ros kept her voice pleasantly neutral and her face completely expressionless.

"You have work to do. And I'm feeling fine. Thank you, Ruth." She twitched her lips into the palest imitation of a smile and kept it there as the analyst left the office. She noticed the expression of mild alarm on Harry's face and smiled inwardly. _Poor man._ Dirty bombs and religious fanatics he could manage, but the prospect of two females having a catfight in his office made his blood run cold. He caught her glance and harrumphed.

"Right. Shall we get going, then?" Ros stood up obediently as he reached for his coat. "I'll put Lucas in here until we get back. If Ruth carries on trawling the websites, and Khalida and Chen keep pumping every asset we've got we might still get lucky." He held the door open for her. "Chen should be tracking a few suspect mobiles, too."

"He's still trying to cover in the tech suite," Ros pointed out as she carefully eased herself into her jacket. "I know he's good on the gadgets, Harry, but he isn't a specialist; we can't load too much on him." She let out a long sigh. "We need Callum back."

"Speak of the Devil," a voice said from behind them. Both swung round. Callum, holding his strapped right arm stiffly at his side, stood behind them. Ros recovered first, and looked daggers at him.

"They were meant to be keeping you in for two days!"

"Told them you'd miss me too much, boss." His eyes twinkled. "And Lucas needs a rival, it's good for him."

Harry stepped into the silence that was, for a second, the only response that Ros could produce. "How do you intend to use a keyboard like that?"

Callum laughed. "No problem. Just give me Chen as my left-hand man, and I'm good to go."

He didn't look as chirpy as he sounded, Ros thought, he was pale and there were shadows under his eyes, but there was little doubting his determination, and she remembered his comment on the drive to the warehouse. She glanced at Harry, who nodded briefly, and crossed the Grid to join Lucas.

"Help Chen review the CCTV," she said crisply to Callum. "Then check every single phone-tap we have running. Contact me with _anything_ suspicious. Understood?"

"Yessir." He beamed. "Where will you be?"

"Dick Whittington's house," Ros said dryly. _More like the bloody Last Chance Saloon. _

He grinned. "Keep your eyes skinned for loose ducats."

_To hell with gold, I'll settle for the streets of London __not__ being paved with the irradiated sodding remains of innocent people._ She nodded briefly at him. Over his shoulder, she could see Harry returning, and Lucas watching them uneasily. Callum half-turned, raised a thumb in Lucas's direction and then looked back at her. Ros braced herself for another crack, and then realised that Callum's smile was sympathetic rather than mocking.

"Don't wake the Green-Eyed Monster." He winked. "I'll keep an eye on him for you, Boss." As Harry joined them, he dropped the mocking air. "Good luck, sir."

"We'll need it." Harry's face was set. The Mayor was a political heavyweight too, and he'd won a few bruising rounds in his time. Ros knew Harry wouldn't pull any punches, but the potential consequences of losing this particular bout went way beyond the loss of a gold medal; terrorists didn't play by the Queensbury Rules. She could only pray that Harry was prepared to hit as far below the belt as it took.

She took a deep breath, followed him into the pods, and prepared to find out.

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading! Please review._


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter Fifteen_

Harry stopped briefly on Lambeth Palace Road to buy two takeaway cups of coffee, and drank his in snatched gulps as he drove through Southwark towards Queen's Walk. The morning traffic was still heavy, and Ros tried to fit her own swallows between his impatient stamping on brake and clutch. As they ground past the bulk of London Bridge Station, now reduced to the status of a concrete pygmy grovelling at the feet of the soaring arrogance that was the Shard, she asked: "Which way do you think he'll go, Harry?"

"Anyone's guess," Harry said sardonically. "You ever met him?"

Ros hesitated, and then shook her head. She always kept her past strictly to herself unless it was germane to an operation, and meeting a flirtatious young journalist twenty years ago at a diplomatic reception wasn't.

"Well don't be fooled by his Mr Bean act." Harry glared at a wobbling cyclist who responded to his blast on the horn with a gestured V-sign of which Winston Churchill would definitely _not_ have approved. "Got a brain like a computer and a tongue like a razor. Just as sharp as yours – so smile politely and keep your own in check a bit; we need him on side."

Ros bristled, and the words were snapped out before she could prevent them. "Wrong officer, Harry. If you wanted a docile little woman to play secretary, you should have told me so and brought Ruth instead; you'd have made her day. "

Harry halted for traffic lights; Ros felt his eyes on her, but she kept her own obdurately fixed on the traffic streaming past the nose of the vehicle.

"Ruth was worried that you might not feel well enough to cope." He swung into Tooley Street. "She was just trying to be helpful."

"Helpful? To _me_?" Ros gave a snort of derision.

"Yes, you," Harry said sharply. "And you need to stop these continual gibes at h … each other." Ros felt herself flushing angrily at the implication of his last-minute change of words. "Whatever's happened in the past between the two of you needs to stay there, and stay private. It doesn't do morale any good if two members of the team aren't at ease with each other. People can't be fully focused on their work, and getting distracted is dangerous."

That was the last straw. Ros's accumulated tension exploded.

"Have you told Ruth that? " Harry's eyes flashed a warning. She ignored it. "Because when she's not oozing resentment, publicly wringing her hands over having to take orders from an amoral bitch like me, or treating me like a bloody invalid, she's distracted by following _you_ around like a lovelorn puppy." She snapped her seatbelt open the instant he brought the vehicle to a halt, and threw the door open. "But then I imagine you'd need to take your bloody rose-coloured spectacles off to notice any of that."

If Harry had been intending to answer, he was thwarted by the ringing of his mobile. Ros got out of the car, slammed the door and stormed furiously across to the embankment wall. Groups of tourists wandering along the river, perhaps dissuaded by her stony expression from asking her to move, parted around her like the Thames flowing around a sandbank.

"Ros." She glanced round as Harry joined her, but said nothing, and pressed her mental mute button on the inner voice warning that she might have gone too far. _Sod it._ She had long since paid any debt she might have had towards Ruth Evershed, _and_ she had been trying to handle her with kid gloves in deference to Harry's attachment to her. It took two to create an atmosphere, and she wasn't about to take the rap solo for the friction between herself and Goody bloody Two Shoes. She stared pointedly at the Tower of London brooding on the other side of the river, and waited for the lecture to start.

"Ros, I appreciate how you feel, and I know that you and Ruth are about as different as two women could possibly be." _Well you're right about that, if nothing else._ "That doesn't make either of you wrong, just different. Ruth's sometimes … kinder … approach to her work and your more ruthless – if you'll pardon the God-awful pun - attitude provide a balance that the team needs. That _I _need. Yes, she's concerned about your health, but trust me, she isn't trying to undermine you, not by going over your head to me, nor in any other way." He cleared his throat. "Like you, Ruth's had a rough time in the last few years. She still misses Jo, her husband was killed, and she was very fond of that child she lost, too._ I _understand that difficult decisions had to be made - _yes, and guess who had to make them, _Ros thought _ -_ but it's hard for her to accept."

Ros wanted to remind him that Lucas hadn't spent the last decade holidaying at Butlins, that Khalida had lost half her family in Afghanistan, and that she herself was still haunted by the ghosts of Jo and Adam. _Save your breath, Myers._ She and Harry shared similar views, worked in similar ways and respected each other, but Ruth Evershed was one subject on which they were always going to disagree. Harry hesitated.

"As for following me around - "

_Oh, for God's sake. _"She wouldn't _have_ to if you'd walk her up the sodding aisle and have done with it," Ros snapped. As Harry blinked, startled, she added, "Well, you told me you were going to! Or do you want me to get myself put back in intensive care first, to provide you with the appropriate romantic setting - dimmed lights, chiming bells and bouquets of bloody flowers everywhere? "

Harry's face, photographed and framed, would have won prizes. For a moment he appeared about to erupt, but suddenly the lines around his eyes crinkled, and he burst into a guffaw that made the pigeons pecking around the litter bins flap away across the river in panic. Heedless of the crowds around them he gave her a quick hug.

"You know the only thing that's always bothered me about you, Rosalind? That dreadful reticence of yours when it comes to expressing your opinion. You really shouldn't bottle things up so much."

"I'm saving breath." Ros gave a twisted smile and took the proffered olive branch; they _were_ on an operation, after all, and considering that she'd just committed nothing short of blasphemy against Saint bloody Ruth, she was getting off lightly. "Who was that on the phone?"

Harry smiled back. "Our very own one-armed bandit. Callum's eagle eye's spotted a car lurking around Pemberton's flat on the CCTV. He's trying to get the number plate. It's _something_, at least." He looked at his watch. "Ready to take on Tsar Boris?"

Ros rolled her eyes. "This job was a hell of a lot easier in Walsingham's day." She gestured across the river. "Watch them, trap them, and in through Traitor's Gate. Politicians' egos and civil liberties be damned."

"And don't think I don't sometimes envy him," Harry said drily. "Let's go."

oOoOoOo

The presentation of their I.D. cards caused a flurry at the information desk, a call to Thames House and finally, directions up the sweeping spiral staircase for which the building was famed. Looking at the structure from outside always made Ros feel as if she'd had several vodkas too many, but as they walked up, her admiration grew. Light streamed into the building from all sides, and the staircase coiling gracefully down its centre reminded her of the spiral-shaped foil decorations on the Christmas trees of her childhood. Unfortunately, that prompted a vivid image of her father lifting her in his arms so that she could hang them. Instantly, she closed her mind. She had accused Ruth of being distracted by the personal. This was no time for her to play copycat.

A booming voice shattered the memory. "Ah, there you are!" As usual, the mayor appeared to have got dressed in a tearing hurry, and without the assistance of a mirror. His jacket was flapping loosely around him, his tie askew, and the trademark white-blond hair looked as if a farmer had scraped up several handfuls of hay and glued it any old how to the man's scalp. "Sir Harry and -? "

"My deputy, Rosalind Myers."

"Delighted_." _He shook hands. We're all under starter's orders." He lumbered back into the conference room. "David Kerry from LOGOC, the Comissioner of the Met, whom you know, of course - Paul Witherspoon, in charge of the Gamesmakers, Josh Briggins liasing for Special Branch, Leroy Patterson for the London Fire Brigade and Ms Hattie O'Leary from G4S. Coffee? Sit down."

Harry slid in next to the Special Branch liaison. Ros sat down, and nodded her thanks as the Mayor thumped a mug down in front of her, slopping a small tsunami of what looked horribly like instant coffee over the edge. Harry was deep in whispered conversation with the Special Branch liaison - Ros could guess about what – and the arrival of his own went unnoticed.

"So, Sir Peter, would you be kind enough to start us off if your – er – your whatsit's ready?"

The commissioner, in full uniform and dripping silver braid, tapped a few keys on the 'whatsit' in question and brought up a Powerpoint slide of the proposed parade route. The details crawled over the mayor's tousled fringe and down his nose. A discreet cough from the Commissioner and a markedly less discreet giggle from the girl from G4S, and he hastily moved his chair back.

"The parade begins at Mansion House at half past one." The Commissioner directed his pointer at the map. " It will progress past St Pauls, then down Fleet Street, Aldwych, and into the Strand an estimated one hour later. From there, across Trafalgar Square, under Admiralty Arch and down the Mall, finishing at the Victoria Memorial, at approximately 3.30 p.m. The Mall will be reserved for volunteers, the military, emergency service personnel, athletes' coaches and London schoolchildren. Ticket-only."

_Thank God,_ Ros thought. That part, at least, could be considered secure. Other than the kids, anyone in there would have already undergone security screening. _Which still leaves three miles-odd to be dealt with._

"We intend to have adjoining and access roads closed and the area sealed to traffic by 11.30 a.m." The Commissioner flashed up another display. "Now, as to access points - "

" Sir Peter, if I may?" All heads turned at Harry's interruption. "Before we proceed any further, I'm afraid I must bring a security problem to your attention."

The Commissioner looked daggers at him; overlapping remits, and therefore the occasional turf war, between Thames House and Scotland Yard were a constant irritant to both parties. "Security problems are _precisely_ what I was about to deal with."

"A poor choice of words." Harry clasped his hands. "My apologies. I _should_ have said that we have a credible terrorist threat."

The room went very still. Ros glanced at the silly bint from G4S, whose eyes were like saucers. Harry followed her gaze and fixed his own on Hattie O'Leary as he continued.

"What I am about to tell you falls within the purview of the Official Secrets Act. Any disclosure of even the smallest detail will render the culprit liable to prosecution _and_ a prison sentence." There was an audible gasp from the girl and uneasy nods from the others as he continued. "Now, with your permission?"

Ros watched the faces around the table as he spoke. The Comissioner's expression wavered between concern and exasperation, the latter mainly directed towards Josh Briggins as it became only too clear that Special Branch had _not_ shared their admittedly partial knowledge with their colleagues. The fireman looked understandably grim, Witherspoon and the LOGOC man shocked and angry, but it was the mayor's reaction that she focused on. _His_ was the opinion that mattered; his the decision that could cancel or defer the parade until Section D had the threat neutralised. _However long that takes._ When Ros had ventured to ask how much detail they should go into, Harry had grunted something about as little as he could get away with. Which, she realised, was precisely what he was giving them. He had been frank about the risk of a dirty bomb, prompting a hiss of indrawn breath like a leaking tyre, and a furious muttering had greeted his reference to Asif Iqbal Mahmood and Mamnoon Hamid. But to say that he was being economical with the truth would have been like saying that Lucas had a slight aversion to water. He kept the details sparse, and didn't once mention either Alex Pemberton or his father. Once he had finished, there was a profound silence, finally broken by the mayor. He had been scratching his head absently throughout, although Ros had observed that his eyes, so often mildly baffled on the TV screens, had been fixed intently on Harry; he hadn't missed a word.

"So what are you asking?" It was crisp, decisive, and firm; not a trace of the overgrown public schoolboy persona.

Harry took a deep breath. "Reluctantly, sir, I'm asking that you cancel the parade to give my team sufficient time to track down and apprehend the men planning this attack."

The words produced shocked looks around the table. The mayor made a sound like a horse that didn't think much of the quality of this week's oats. Then he tossed his over-long fringe out of his eyes. Ros almost expected him to neigh.

"I see. Well, a decision of this magnitude should be the subject of further consultation. Have you asked the Home Secretary to convene COBRA? Blast it, even the PM?"

"Unfortunately," Harry said drily, "I've been officially informed that the former is out of contact until Tuesday for personal reasons, and I believe that the PM is busy doing his St George act on the barbarians in Brussels. Which, to coin an appropriate sporting phrase, seems to leave the ball rather neatly in your court."

"Quite. Deuce." The mayor grunted. "Tie-break territory." He stood up, walked to the picture windows and turned back. "How close d'you think you are to winning it?"

"Close," Harry answered. "But not close enough to offer a hundred percent guarantee of the parade's safety. Hamid is unlikely to co-operate, and even if we track down Mahmood, there is no certainty that _he_ will. We are searching for one of his ... accomplices ... who will almost certainly be ready to turn. That is our best hope of containing the threat, but if we fail to bring him in in time - " he shrugged.

"What kind of an attack are you assuming?" the Comissioner asked. "Suicide bomber? Or planted somewhere on the route?"

"More likely the latter," Harry said. "_En route_ or on one of the floats. Or the device could be brought in, quietly dropped by someone in the crowd, then remote-detonated." He and Ros had concluded that Mahmood would know by now of Hamid's arrest and expect the security services to be conducting a manhunt for him and his closest acolytes. He wouldn't risk his attack being thwarted by the possibility of any of them being picked up. He _might_ use Pemberton, if he was sure of being able to control him and believed the authorities to be unaware of the reasons behind Pemberton's disappearance. But it was far more likely that the bomb had already been placed ... or would be before the route was secured at 11.30 the following morning.

"By dirty bomb," Leroy Patterson asked, "you mean what, exactly?" Ros glanced at Harry, who nodded.

"An explosive device possibly containing a small quantity of uranium," she said quietly.

"Jesus Christ!" David Kerry had turned white. Paul Witherspoon swore vehemently, and Hattie O'Leary stifled a squeal. The LOGOC man turned to the mayor with an appealing expression. "Mr Mayor, you _have_ to call it off!"

The man's pale blue eyes ranged over each person at the table as if he was weighing their reactions. Ros had been in his position before and she knew how lonely it was; the weight of expectation, the burden of responsibility and the pressure of competing demands all conspiring to break your nerve and distort your capacity for rational thinking. He turned his back to stare out over the river, and Harry grimaced a 'don't know' response to Ros's raised 'what do you think?' eyebrows. Their spat outside had been filed in the archives by silent mutual consent; she and Harry were bound again by the threads of unspoken empathy from which their working relationship had been woven over the years.

"Sir, there will be hundreds of thousands of people in the streets tomorrow." It was Witherspoon. "Not to mention eight hundred athletes on those floats. If Mr -" he faltered for a second as he realised that Harry, so far, had no name. "If you can't find the terrorists, then surely you can't take that risk! It means cancelling."

"It also," Josh Briggs interjected quietly, "means giving an explanation of why. A_ watertight_ explanation that can't be discredited. One that won't cause mass panic throughout Greater London."

Harry nodded in agreement. If Briggs had been shooting for a medal in the Olympic archery competition, he would just have scored a bullseye. No-one would believe that an event of this magnitude had been called off at the eleventh hour because of the wrong kind of leaves on the parade route.

The mayor turned round again. "Do you have any_ conclusive_ evidence of this threat? Proof positive?"

"No, I do not," Harry said honestly. "In my profession we rarely have conclusive evidence. We're always intent on _finding_ it, of course; alas, the terrorist is equally intent on keeping it from us. We have strong indications - and a great many coincidences, which are usually a fairly reliable pointer."

"You didn't mention any of these 'coincidences'," David Kerry said testily. "Or where these 'indications' came from."

Harry favoured him with a thin smile. "Security. We can only share information on a 'need-to-know' basis, Mr Kerry. Disclosing too much would put the success of the operation and the safety of some of our informants, not to mention my officers, at risk. I have told you all that I can."

_And all that I intend to_. Ros could just imagine the outburst that would occur if they knew that Harry's '_accomplice_' was a British national sporting hero with a _pukkah_ Establishment father.

"Well, how are we supposed to make a decision based on partial information?" The shrill demand came from Hattie O'Leary. Harry turned towards her, and Ros smugly watched her shrink.

"You aren't, Miss O'Leary. Any decision rests in the mayor's hands."

"Well, that's not - " she began, but stopped as a large hand descended firmly on her shoulder. The mayor put his finger to his lips in a positive caricature of a reproving teacher.

"How many threats and alerts were there in the run-up to the Games, Sir Harry?"

"At least half a dozen, wasn't it?" Harry looked enquiringly at Ros.

"Eight major ones," Ros said. _I should bloody well know, they kept me awake every night for almost three months. "C_ountless minor incidents."

"All of which you dealt with, controlled, or prevented," he observed, toying with his bottom lip. "Can you deal with this one?"

"I believe so," Harry said crisply. Ros kept her face clear. Harry would never display the slightest doubt in Section D's capability; if the wider public, which included the mayor, ever suspected exactly how close they came, and how often, to _failing_ to 'deal with' the terrorist threat, they would be in the final lap of a race to the mass panic that Josh Briggs had mentioned.

The mayor scrutinised him for a long time. Then he straightened up. His eyes were hard, and the bumbling teddy-bear image had gone altogether.

"Then this parade is going ahead." He raised a hand authoritatively to silence the squawks of protest from Hattie O'Leary and David Kerry. The others watched him attentively.

"You heard what Sir Harry said. Had we caved in to _any_ of the threats MI-5 has already defused, the Games would never have been held, and Her Majesty's Diamond Jubilee celebration lunch been reduced to emergency ration packs of Spam in the Royal bunker. _The purpose of terrorism is to terrorise._ Lenin, curse the wretch. That is what they want for us - to be too frightened to come out and enjoy ourselves, but to live our lives in terrified anticipation of what _they _intend to do next. That isn't London."

"And it isn't the point!" Hattie O'Leary interrupted.

"Oh yes, it is." The mayor jabbed his finger at the Commissioner. "We will go through your plans with a damned fine toothcomb. I will personally authorise whatever manpower you need, and any specialised back-up that Sir Harry deems necessary. We will sew this up as tight as Scrooge's wallet, but the parade _will_ take place - safely. Young lady!" to Hattie. "The Tower has stood out there for a thousand years. Withstood the menace of the Black Death, the threat of the Red Army, and some of government's more mindless Green Papers. Survived the German incendiairies of the Second World War, didn't get much more than dented by the IRA's pathetic attempt to blow it to oblivion in the seventies. Symbol of this city. Which, by God, isn't about to scuttle away from a national celebration it thoroughly deserves in fear of a scurrilous, pathetic little bunch of thugs whose whole, vile ethos undermines everything it stands for."

_He means it. _Ros stole a glance at Harry. Usually his reaction to a politician's grandstanding would be weary contempt, but perhaps he, like her, had heard the sincerity in the mayor's words. His defiant anger was completely genuine, and to her own surprise, Ros found herself agreeing with him. That, after all, was why she and Harry did their jobs; precisely so that people could go on living their day-to-day lives without fear.

"Mr Mayor, this is a question of people's safety!" David Kerry exploded."You can't put lives at risk in order to milk the feelgood factor. This isn't politics!"

"Everything is politics." The mayor's hair flopped into his eyes; irritably, he shoved it back. "Do you read the papers, Mr Kerry? Then you'll know what's coming - swingeing budget cuts, job losses, reductions in Government services, rising utility prices. Intense pressure on the whole social fabric of this country. Crime, racial tension, financial stress. You saw what happened a year ago. Cities in flames. And if it goes public that a major event like this has been threatened by Islamic extremists? That we've kow-towed to them? What will that do in flashpoints like Bradford or Brixton? One spark, that's all it will need. Yes, I'll jolly well milk the feelgood factor. I'll milk it for all it's worth. Because for a while - not forever, but for a while - it will bring us the unity and the stability we need to keep those sparks damped down."

"He's right." Paul Witherspoon, who had earlier seemed eager to cancel, now spoke firmly. "I was wrong. These Games have done more to bring people together in four weeks than the politicians could do in four years." He gulped. "They're just bullies, these people. If we stood up to Hitler, we can stand up to them."

"Bravo!" the mayor said approvingly. "And we can rely on our noble spooks. You'll get all the help and support I can offer, Sir Harry. So, _Regnum Defende_?"

"'_Regnum Defende_." The Noble Spook gave him a brief, but genuine smile. Ros knew that while Harry's head had driven his decision to urge cancellation, his heart had loathed the idea of capitulating to terror; deep down, this was the response he'd wanted. She exchanged a wry grin with him as she realised that, for all her concern, she had, too.

Her mobile chose that moment to start chirping. Hurriedly, she muttered an apology and hurried towards the door, pulling the phone from her pocket as she went.

"Ros?" It was Lucas. "Are you with Harry? We've been trying to reach him, but he's not answering his phone."

_Probably on silent. _"Yeah. We're still at City Hall. What's the - "

"We need him back here," Lucas cut across her. "Fast as he can. Are you sitting down?"

Ros looked over the metal rail she was leaning against, down the dizzying drop of the spiral staircase. "Yeah. What's happened?"

Lucas took a deep breath. "Press leak."

_Oh, shit._ A pulse began to throb in Ros's temple. "How bad?"

"Bad enough. Reporter got through to Ruth. They don't have many details, but they've got wind, and they're sniffing round."

"On our way." Ros clicked the phone off and went back into the conference room, where the Met Commissioner had resumed his presentation. Ros leaned over Harry and whispered Lucas's message in his ear. Harry reacted with a fairly good imitation of an over-boiled lobster.

"It's yours. You know what we need. Make sure we get it." To the unconcealed fury of the police officer he interrupted him again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a development."_ We certainly sodding do._ "I must return to Thames House. Miss Myers will remain with you to help refine the security arrangements for tomorrow; she knows exactly what we need."

The Commissioner looked towards Ros with disapproval. "Has she the authority to take such decisions?"

Harry got to his feet. "She's my deputy, Sir Peter. And once I hand in my resignation, she'll be sitting in my seat." He clapped Ros on the shoulder. "None better." He addressed the mayor. "We'll do our part; I trust you'll do yours."

The mayor raised his hand in a farewell salute. "_Ubi concordia, ibi victoria_, Sir Harry!"

_Where there is unity, there is the victory._ Ros took Harry's seat as he swept through the door. _Bloody Classics scholars._ Her own Latin studies were a long way off, but there was one phrase she remembered only too well.

"_Tempus fugit_, Sir Peter." She glanced out of the window and glimpsed Harry, rendered diminutive by distance, running like a scurrying ant for his car. "Shall we?"

oOoOoOo


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter Sixteen_

"For God's sake, Harry's turned the place into a sardine factory," Ros said irritably, as they were faced with a phalanx of broad shoulders forming an impenetrable barrier across the corridor leading to the Grid. She tapped sharply on the nearest pair, then bawled: "_Excuse me!" _straight into the ear of their unsuspecting owner. He jumped a foot, causing a minor earth tremor through the line, and edged aside. Ros bared her teeth in something approximating to gratitude, and pressed forward elbows first, preceded by a nervous whispering comprised largely of the words '_Myers' _and '_look out'._ Lucas, subduing a wry smile, squeezed through behind her until they reached the front. People were squashed against the walls, perched on desks, and jammed two to a chair, all looking up to where Harry Pearce stood on a table addressing them like a campaigning politician.

"He must have stripped the other sections bare," Lucas muttered. Ros nodded. She had recognised officers from Sections A and F, and almost every member of the Watchers counter-surveillance teams. Not to mention a dozen of their own, whose 48-hour post-Olympics leave had been slightly shorter than the average Olympic Marathon. _Just as well._ With the enhanced security arrangements she and Harry had demanded, they'd need every body capable of walking upright.

She listened absently as Harry continued his briefing on the measures that she had charmed, cajoled, and finally coerced, out of City Hall and Scotland Yard. The Met had eventually agreed to have the parade route locked down not by 11.30 a.m. as they had originally intended, but at 7.30. A half-dozen access points had been opened along it, and combined teams of police officers and G4S staff would search every single person passing through them. Both Harry and Ros would have preferred not to use the security firm - Harry had described them as the security equivalent of a Thames Water reservoir - but given their need for manpower, had reluctantly done so. MI-5 officers and plainclothes Special Branch men would be combing through the crowds, and CO-19 snipers would be stationed on the roofs. Surveillance had been stepped up at nearby Tube stations, while the Gamesmakers would provide an 'honour guard' - and several hundred extra watchers in the process - along the route. Callum had rounded up a half-dozen pairs of the sharpest eyes in Thames House and shanghaied them into helping him to scan CCTV, a responsibility shared with a mirror team at Scotland Yard. Ruth, who had been fighting a losing battle against her best analysts being poached for other duties, had managed to cling on to a select few who would assist in monitoring phone taps and trawling websites for the slightest suspect transmission. The arrangements were impressively thorough; the parade would indeed, in the mayor's words, be sealed '_tighter than Scrooge's wallet_'. Ros should have been reassured; instead, her chest felt tight and her palms damp, neither of which were entirely due to the stuffiness of the overcrowded room. After all, they still hadn't tracked down either Asif Iqbal Mahmood or Alex Pemberton, and the metaphorical wallet could still slip through a hole in the security services' pocket.

"Any questions?" The tense shifting of bodies around her jerked Ros back to the present. "Right. Ros Myers is Gold Commander. For any of you who don't know her, Ros ... Ros, where are you?" She raised her hand. "Whoever you work for, she is your ultimate superior for the duration of this operation, and any order from her must be obeyed _without question_." Harry paused. "I don't have to impress on any of you what the consequences will be if we fail to stop this attack. So stop it we shall. Understood?" Heads bobbed to a murmured '_yes, sir'_. "Very well. Then get on with it."

As the crowd began to jostle its way towards the pods, Ros followed Harry's beckoning hand towards his office. Lucas peeled off to join Chen and Khalida; today the young Pakistani was dressed in jeans and a casual shirt, her long hair tied up in a ponytail. Ros had refused to let her join _this_ field operation in Islamic dress, and Khalida had changed without a murmur of protest. As devout a Muslim as she was, her devotion to her job always took precedence.

"Quick coffee before we leave?" Harry asked. Ros nodded; like most of the core team she hadn't gone home overnight but had snatched a few hours in the rest room.

"We?" she enquired.

"I'm coming with you," Harry answered. "Callum and Ruth will handle the Grid." Ros blinked. "I've only got a dodgy knee, I'm not deaf, blind or senile. I can still manage in the field."

_And you think I can't._ Ros felt her hands clenching into fists.

"What about Lucas?" She had assumed that if she were about to be blown sky-high again he would at least be there this time.

"He'll take Chen. I'll send Noel Barber with Khalida. You know we've been talking about promoting him." Harry's voice softened. "Ros, don't look at me like that. I said you're in command, and I meant it. I know you don't need me to hold your hand. And I'm not coming to carry your inhaler, either."

"Then _why_?" She winced at the audible hurt that edged her words. When Harry offered her the coffee, she shook her head and folded her arms tightly. He sighed.

"In confidence?"

Ros frowned at the strange note in his voice. DIsquieted, she said uneasily, "Of course. What is it?"

"I'm not happy about this. I've got a feeling - we used to call it Belfast Belly in the army." He took a mouthful of coffee and grimaced. "There's _something ... _God knows what_ - _that isn't right here. I'm not going to work out what it is by wearing out the lino all day. Either way, this is my last op, so I want to be out there at the sharp end. Then if things go belly up, at least I'll know I tried."

Ros's throat went dry. In all the years she had known Harry he had almost never shown uncertainty. She was getting a privileged glimpse of the man beneath the leader's mask, but right now she would happily have declined the privilege for the reassurance of the confidence he displayed to everyone else. She gave the only response that seemed appropriate.

"They won't." She glanced out of the window to where the rest of the team was shooting covert glances in their direction. "And since you mention it ... you _could_ carry the spare for me." She held the inhaler out to him. As Harry gave a brief smile and slid it into his pocket, she added, "Better dispatch the shock troops."

She followed him out. Each pair of officers was assigned to a different section of the parade; now Harry announced that he and Ros would cover the start from Mansion House to the top of Fleet Street, where Lucas and Chen would take over. Khalida and Noel Barber would pick up the baton at the Strand.

"And don't do a Team GB and drop it," he added sardonically. Everyone smiled except Lucas, who had been moody ever since Harry had plugged the impending press leak the previous day by sending him to charm the reporter. He had done a good job - by the end of it the young woman had been putty in his hands, and it was certainly less controversial than issuing a D-notice - but Lucas had a deep loathing of honeytrap operations, and had hated every minute of it. Being unable to watch her back today wasn't going to make him any happier. As Harry turned aside to answer his phone, Ros moved to her colleague's side.

"Try and bring Chen back with all his teeth this time."

"All the better to bite you with, my dear." The comment, in a querulous old crone's voice, came – inevitably - from a leering Callum. Ros couldn't help laughing. In the circumstances the clowning was hideously inappropriate, but it eased the emotional tension. Even Lucas cracked a twisted smile.

"_You_ just find the sodding Big Bad Wolf," she retorted. "And if comms go down I guarantee you'll be a dead cert for the next Paralympics." She nodded briskly at the other four. "Stay in contact. Go."

Lucas smiled tautly. "See you." He led them away. Ros was pulling on her jacket when Ruth came up.

"Ros, er – Harry shouldn't really be in the field, should he? He isn't fit, and - "

"Tell_ him_," Ros said shortly. "It wasn't my idea, Ruth."

"But it's not safe - he's not a field officer any more!" The analyst's fingers twisted anxiously. "If anything should happen …"

"There'll be hundreds of thousands of people at risk today if anything should happen, Ruth." _And you're not the only one who cares for one of them. _She dismissed _that_ wayward thought immediately. "If you want to keep Harry safe, then do your job and let us do ours. That's what matters."

Ruth's face flushed crimson and twisted in distaste.

"That and your career!" she flared. "Has _anything_ else ever mattered to you? Or any_one_?"

"What's happening here?" The sharp interruption came from Harry, dressed for the field in sweater and casual jacket. "Is there a problem, Ruth?" Ruth shook her head, but she looked tearful. "Then I'll join you in the car, Ros."

It was a dismissal, and Ros obeyed with alacrity; she wasn't up for a _Brief Encounter _Grid-style between Podgy and Bliss today. She gunned the car up the ramp to the street in an angry squeal of tyres and parked near the Thorney Street exit. A few people were already making their way towards the parade route, and Ros idly watched a family coming off the bridge; parents, an elderly man and three kids, the latter prancing along waving Union flags and babbling excitedly. As Harry emerged from the building the children called out, waved, and performed an impromptu, giggling 'Mobot' routine. Harry smilingly returned the compliment, and climbed into the car.

"You don't have his wiggle," Ros said dryly.

"Or his flexibility." Harry watched the children scampering down the road. His face was bleak. "Imagine what will become of them."

_If we don't stop this. _It was a salutary reminder of how much was at stake and how little their personal fears actually counted for. Ros swung the car round in a U-turn, and sped towards the City.

oOoOoOo

The athletes' assembly area reminded her of a gigantic school outing, bursting as it was with hundreds of excited young athletes swarming about and chattering like a flock of starlings. A beaming Gamesmaker conducted her and Harry down the waiting line of white, open-top lorries to number fourteen, due to carry the rowers. After a moment, Harry nudged Ros and tilted his head towards a tall, young, redheaded man.

"I'll check in." He moved away slightly, and Ros approached Mark Eastwood-Young, with whom Alex Pemberton had rowed to his gold medal. When she identified herself with D.I. Drummond's identity card, the rower looked bewildered, but in no way alarmed or uncomfortable. Ros told him that they were hunting for the burglars of Alex's cottage in Eton Wick still, and added a few rueful comments about staff shortages dragging out the investigation. They just needed another quick word with Mr Pemberton – was he here?

"Alex?" Eastwood-Young shook his head. "No, he said he wouldn't be coming. Bit under the weather. Rotten shame to miss the fun."

Ros tutted sympathetically. Around them, officials were beginning to shepherd the boisterous crowd into the vehicles.

"Absolutely. I hope he won't have given it to you."

The rower laughed. "Not unless it's a superbug that can travel down phone lines. He rang me."

"Oh." Ros smiled back. "When was that?"

Eastwood-Young frowned. "Yesterday … no. No, day before. He sounded quite rough, actually. Croaky … bit shaky as well. He didn't stay on the line long. Probably better he gets the rest." His freckled face creased into a smile. "We'll probably all go down like ninepins after this, Inspector. Adrenaline crash. You know how it is."

_And how._ She nodded amiably. "You don't happen to know where he's staying?"

The slightest trace of concern appeared on Eastwood-Young's features. "I assumed Eaton Wick. He didn't say, and I didn't ask. Is something wrong, Inspector?"

"Just paperwork." Ros gave her best world-weary, downtrodden policeman's shrug. "We'll catch up with him, no worries." She gestured towards the athletes now piling on board. "Enjoy the ride. And congratulations!"

"Damn and blast," Harry swore. All police and MI-5 officers had orders to detain Alex Pemberton on sight. Harry had refused point-blank to share their suspicions about him with G4S; even with the threat of a spell of porridge hanging over her, he didn't trust Hattie O'Leary to keep her own mouth firmly closed, let alone those of her staff. Eastwood-Young's information suggested that Pemberton was almost certainly still being held captive – and used - by the terrorists.

"Any re - " Ros broke off as the first of the lorries fired up its engine with a roar that for a dreadful, chilling second, she thought was an explosion. She read the same reaction on Harry's face. "_Any reports_?" she yelled over the rising noise.

He shook his head as, with another flash of I.D, they cleared the metal security gates at the access point. People were still queueing to get through it, but the mood was cheerful and relaxed, and they submitted patiently to the searches. An enormous cheer rose as the first lorry rolled forward. Ros looked enquiringly at Harry. He shrugged.

"You're in charge."

Ros hesitated, but not for more than a fraction of a second. Then she nodded across the road. "I'll take that side."

She dodged across the street ahead of the police outriders, and slid into the crowd. It was dense but not packed tight; they had ordered that room be left between people 'for safety reasons'. Within a short distance, Ros clocked three men moving as unobtrusively as she was; waving and cheering with the rest, their eyes nonetheless flickered constantly over the spectators standing around them and those looking down from office windows. Buildings had been thoroughly searched, and security advisories issued to businesses, but no-one was prepared to take any chances. The air was warm and close from the press of bodies, and Ros was beginning to develop a headache. She swiftly used her inhaler.

"Ros?" It was Callum Reed's voice in her earpiece. His explanation of their comms set-up might have been made in Ancient Sanskrit for all Ros had understood of it, but at least it was working. She eased towards the back of the crowd. "Khalida says there's a bit of agitation near St Clement Dane – anti-war demo. Looks like they're mixed IC-6 and IC-4. Police are trying to disperse them."

"Tell her to keep us briefed." Ros watched a lorry full of exuberant, waving athletes rolling past. "Ruth got anything?"

There was a pause. "Traffic's intensified on some of the red-flagged sites. Nothing specific yet."

"OK. Keep at it. Out." She moved on. Normally, trying to work your way like this through a London crowd would earn you the full complement of glares, insults, crushed toes and elbowed ribs with which the harassed inhabitants of the capital fought for their shrinking amount of personal space. Today, people anaesthetised by the alchemy of Olympic success smiled, and moved politely out of her way. Yet _some_one in this euphoric, rejoicing crowd was planning to create carnage from the celebration. Ros gritted her teeth.

_Not on my watch._ She called in reports from Khalida and Lucas, then had Callum patch her through to the senior ops officer for the Met. No-one had anything more suspicious to recount than the arrests of several Colombian pickpockets and a couple of mislaid children. Ros's tension grew with each report, and for a second she was swept with something dangerously close to panic as she remembered her own words to Lucas about needing a miracle. _Stop flapping, Myers, think!_ In handing her command of the operation, Harry had been testing her. She _had_ to step up. _There must be something you've missed. Find it!_

At the junction with Cannon Street, she phoned Harry, then passed through an emergency exit left in the crowd barriers and darted across the road between floats. After a minute Harry popped up at her side. A handful of red, white and blue streamers were caught up in his jacket collar, and a large blob of what looked suspiciously like ice-cream adorned the front of his sweater. A roar of cheering approval from the crowd drowned his words, but Ros read his lips. _Nothing. All clear. _His furrowed brow indicated that he was no more reassured by that than she was. Ros was about to say that they should continue towards the majestic bulk of St Paul's rearing up on the horizon, when she realised that her phone screen was flashing. In the uproar around them she had neither heard it ringing nor felt the vibration.

"Myers," she shouted as they eased through the press of people. Harry steered her into Bread Street, where the crowd thinned out and the noise was slightly less intense.

"Ros!" Callum's voice rang with urgency. "We've got a match on the face recog. We think it's Mahmood."

Ros's heartbeat leapt. "Where?" She mouthed _Mahmood_ to Harry.

"Fleet Street. Just come out of Ye Old Cock Tavern."

"Anyone close?" Ros looked down Bread Street and spotted a police car. She pointed, and they began to jog-trot towards it.

"Chen and Lucas are at Whitefriars Street. Less than a quarter of a mile. We've alerted them. And Ruth's called in a team of Watchers; they're coming up from Aldwych now."

"Tell them to get a move on. Wait." Ros leaned into the car and thrust her I.D. under the driver's nose. "Myers, Thames House, Gold Commander. We're tracking a suspect. Fleet Street. Now!" They scrambled in. "Callum, have you got eyeball?"

"Yeah, we – hang on. Hold it … yeah." Ros heard a distant babble of conversation. "Yeah, CCTV for the moment, but he looks like he's turning into Middle Temple Lane."

Ros swore as the police driver sped off down Bread Street. That whole area was a tangled skein of cloisters, twisting lanes, and secret corners, and worse, CCTV coverage was sparse.

"Circulate a full description to the Met. Everyone keep their distance._ Nobody_ approaches him; keep him in sight, and wait for instructions. And put bomb disposal on standby. Patch me through to Lucas." She clung on with one hand as the driver careered through narrow medieval streets never designed for this type of speed while Harry, braced against the back seat, shouted directions at him.

"Ros." Lucas was breathing heavily, and she could hear his feet slapping rapidly against the pavement.

"He's going into the Temple," she said. "Can you cut him off?"

"Yeah. Lombard Lane." She heard him repeat the words breathlessly to Chen. "We're on it."

"Stay in contact." Ros's headache was increasing exponentially, and her ribs ached. She ignored both. As the car lurched round another corner, she got on to the Met, ordered a discreet evacuation of Ye Old Cock Tavern, and instructed that an armed response unit be sent to Victoria Embankment. Occasionally she glimpsed a rolling sea of red, white and blue through the gaps between the proud, ancient City buildings, and cheers and rapturous applause from the spectators drifted into the vehicle. As they rocketed into Chancery Lane, and Ros spotted the graceful Gothic spires of St Dunstan in the West at the end of it, she turned to Harry.

"Have I forgotten anything?" Up to that point the immediacy of the operation had pushed the horrific consequences of its failing to the back of her mind. Now, suddenly, they reared up like a nightmare ghoul, and as a frightened child would seek the protection of its parents, so she desperately needed Harry's reassurance.

"You're fine." They jumped out of the car and ran into Fleet Street. The last few floats were just rumbling past, and the spectators were beginning to drift happily in their wake. Ros searched frantically for a gap in the barriers.

"Over," Harry grunted, and jumped them with an agility that belied both his age _and_ his dodgy knee. Ros followed suit and squirted two doses of Salbutamol. Just as they reached the other side of the road, Callum came through again.

"Ros, we've lost CCTV, but the Watchers have him in sight and Lucas and Chen are almost there. But there's a problem. That demo. Khalida says they're giving the police the run-around - fifty or so of them. The plods got them off the parade route and tried to kettle them, but they're heading your way."

Ros and Harry exchanged glances.

"It's organised. They're trying to give him cover. _Shit._" Ros closed her eyes for a second. "Get Ruth onto the Yard. I want Fleet Street cleared as soon as the last float's gone through. Quickly and quietly. Get bomb disposal and a search team with dogs into that pub, and make sure there's a Broken Arrow unit sent too. Got it?"

"Got it. Ros, there's something else. Ruth got an alert – _Warriors of Light, _I think she said … _Ruth! _Hold it, Ros, just a second - "

Ros hesitated. _No time._ "Later." She cut contact, and together, she and Harry plunged into the Inns of Court.

oOoOoOo

In her younger days, Ros had sometimes accompanied her father to diplomatic events here, and as she and Harry emerged cautiously into Brick Court, the sudden quiet brought the memories flooding back. Whatever went on here behind the discreetly screened and curtained windows of the elegant buildings lining the perfectly landscaped grounds was always invisible; today it was inaudible, too. Ros guessed that many chambers would be closed for the parade. The stillness was in stark contrast to the exuberant celebrations on Fleet Street … and unsettling.

"Callum?" Ros kept her voice to a whisper as she and Harry hugged the shadows of the walls and scanned the gardens. "Where's Lucas?"

"Heading for Church Court. The armed response unit's arrived, where do you want them?"

Ros thought quickly. None of the team was armed. "Leave two men to secure the gates and two to check the garden. Divide the rest – half to Lucas, search Church Court and Hare Court. Half to us at Fountain Court."

"Yup." She heard him relay the order. "Rent-a-Mob's on its way, Ros. Plods in pursuit. Hold it." He shouted impatiently. "Ros – we last had him near Middle Temple Hall. Ninety seconds ago."

"I heard," Harry said, when she began to repeat the information. "Let's go."

Silently, using hand signals and, in Ros's case, wordlessly cursing the crunching gravel underfoot, they moved across Fountain Court, eyes searching and ears straining for the slightest sign of movement. The sudden, raucous squawk of a crow made her spin round in alarm. Nothing. Harry signalled her to go around the back of Middle Temple Hall, and himself advanced warily straight ahead into Middle Temple Gardens. Infinitely aware of how exposed she was, Ros took a deep breath and edged around the corner. Nothing – until a second later half an armed response unit, boots scuffing noisily on the gravel, erupted into it from the other side. Ros winced. If Mahmood _hadn't _been aware that they were in pursuit, he would be now.

"Anything?" she demanded.

The leader shook his head, just as shouting and chanting drifted up from the direction of the Embankment; from the aggressive tone, Ros guessed it would be the demonstrators.

"Round them up and detain them." Her phone rang. She waved towards the gates. "Harry Pearce is down there; he'll help. Yes, Lucas?"

"Ros! Ros, we've got him! Pump Court!"

_Yes!_ Adrenaline soaring, Ros ran back up Middle Temple Lane and darted through the tiny alley that led into Pump Court. In the shadows of the colonnade on the other side, she spotted Lucas talking to an armed police officer. The policeman saluted; Lucas smiled.

"Here." He led her out into the square, which was speckled with armed officers carrying out a systematic search. Two were holding the tall, spare figure of Mahmood, twisting his arms none too gently behind him, where a third was clamping handcuffs on his wrists. The Pakistani looked down at Ros with an expression of withering contempt, and then a sardonic smile curved his lips.

"Strive hard against the Unbelievers ... for their abode is Hell."

"Save it for the interrogators." _And I'll be one of them. _ She itched to use her hand to smack the expression of arrogant superiority from his face. "Take him to Paddington Green. Charge him with conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism. We'll be in touch."

She watched the officers frogmarch the Pakistani away. Lucas slipped an arm round her waist and nuzzled her hair. "We did it. Thank God."

"Yeah." Ros saw Harry across Pump Court and waved. "We need to check with bomb disposal at the pub, though. Can you contact Khalida too, and make sure everything's under control her end?"

Lucas nodded, smiled at Harry, and took a few steps away. Harry clapped Ros on the shoulder; she saw both triumph _and_ relief in his eyes.

"Well done, lass._ Really_ well done. They've arrested - "

"Ros! _Ros!_" The shrill note of alarm was such that all three of them turned as an ashen-faced Chen Liu came racing across Church Court. "Ros, you'd better come. Now."

He turned away without waiting for a reply. Lucas abruptly ended his call, and he and Harry followed them over to the church. Several of the armed officers clustered around the entrance backed away; the shock on their faces and the way they averted their eyes caused a worm of ice to crawl down Ros's spine.

"This way." Chen gulped. The tap of their feet on the flagstones echoed eerily off the walls. The building was lightly scented with a mixture of wax and mustiness, as if it hadn't been aired for a while. _Which it shouldn't have been,_ she realised suddenly. Vandalism meant that churches were now mostly locked outside of the main tourist season.

Chen stopped, and pointed silently ahead of him. Ros followed his indication, but for a moment her eyes couldn't make sense of what she was seeing. It was Lucas's horrified murmur of '_Gospodi, bozhe moi_' from behind her that ripped apart the veil of disbelief.

Inside a protective black rail lay the carved effigies of four medieval Knights Templar, their gloved stone hands holding shields, the haft of a sword, or clasped piously at their breasts. Between the top pair, arms by his sides, eyes closed, and with a piece of paper pinned to his sweater, lay the body of Alex Pemberton.

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_Thank you for reading. Please review! :)_


	17. Chapter 17

_CHAPTER SEVENTEEN_

"_You routed the doubters, and you scattered the gloomsters, and for the first time in living memory you caused tube-train passengers to break into spontaneous conversation."_

Lucas smiled as Ros joined the small knot of officers watching the news channel re-broadcasting the mayor's speech at the Victoria Memorial. He handed her a mug of coffee.

"You have to admit it, he's got _something_. He had those crowds eating out of his hand."

"… _such paroxysms of tears and joy on the sofas of Britain that you probably not only inspired a generation, but helped to create one."_

As laughter rippled through the group, Ros caught sight of Harry, with his usual Ruth-shaped tail, emerging from his office and pointing towards the conference room. "All right, break it up," she said mildly. "It was funny the first ten times. Back to work." She gulped down the coffee. "Where's the latest report from CO-19 at the pub?"

"I'll find out." Lucas strode away to the tech suite as she crossed swiftly to the meeting room. Preliminary reports from bomb disposal indicated that no explosive device had been found, but after evacuating the building, they had cordoned off two blocks in both directions on Ros's orders in order to go through it with a fine toothcomb. Alex Pemberton's body had been removed discreetly to St Pancras' Mortuary, to where the pathologist on call to Thames House had been sent post-haste, and Chen Liu had accompanied two police officers to break the news of his son's death to Sir Roger. Everyone else had been ordered back to base once the parade reached the VIP area in the Mall and was handed into the care of a _troika_ consisting of the Met, the Diplomatic Protection Group and the army. As the crowds began to disperse, the day's celebratory ambience, overlaid with an intense feeling of relief, had gradually begun to permeate Thames House too. Ros would have liked to share in it, but although the trees might be thinning, she knew they weren't out of the woods yet. Yes, the parade had been a huge, _safe_ success, as the Mayor had promised. And they could certainly boast of a Triumph with the arrest of Asif Iqbal Mahmood. But the as yet unannounced death – _murder – _of Alex Pemberton was a huge blow. Harry was withholding the information until the athlete's father had been notified, but it would have to be released sooner rather than later, and she could just imagine the Home Secretary's reaction. And although she would have been the last person to rejoice at finding a bag of uranium glowing sweetly green under Samuel Pepys' favourite seat in Ye Olde Cock Tavern, the fact that they _hadn't_ meant that it – and a potential Disaster - must still be out there somewhere. The threat wasn't yet contained … just deferred.

"Where's Khalida?" Harry asked, as Ros slid into her usual seat, and Lucas, Ruth and Callum settled in around the table.

"I sent her to Paddington Green," Ros answered. "Just to observe procedures for Mahmood and the rest of his merry men; check what other rotten fish we may have caught in the net."

He nodded. "Right, then first things first. That note on Pemberton's chest."

"It's a Biblical quote, Harry. Revelation, chapter eight." Ruth glanced down at the notepad in front of her. "_A great star fell from heaven, blazing like a torch, and it fell on a third of the rivers and on the fountains of water. And - " _she hesitated, and checked the paper again.

"_And the star's name was Wormwood."_ It was Lucas who finished the quotation, and Ros suppressed an involuntary smile. The combination of a photographic memory and being the son of a Methodist minister occasionally gave Lucas a head start over the rest of them when it came to dealing with the world's religious fanatics. Then, belatedly, she noticed that he had turned sheet-white.

"Lucas, what is it?" Harry had noticed too.

The younger man swallowed hard. "Wormwood. I – er - I think it's a message, Harry. They're taunting us."

"Meaning?" Harry snapped.

"Chernobyl. The reactor explosion in '86. The word _chernobyl_ – it's a type of plant; you find it in Russia and Ukraine. " He paused for a second. "And Belarus. Mugwort, I think, in English. Anyway, it's a type of wormwood. I remember Vyetochka telling me. The Russians are incredibly superstitious, read signs into everything, and a lot of people at the time linked up the Biblical reference and the accident's release of - "

"Uranium." The word came out through gritted teeth, and Ros tensed. She would have loved to think Lucas was just being whimsical, but the choice of that particular quote from the many apocalyptic descriptions available in Revelation couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

"What's the situation at the pub now?"

"It's clear, Harry." Callum flicked a finger expertly across his iPad. "They've turned it inside out and done a fingertip search of the immediate area. The Broken Arrow team's not found a trace of radiation anywhere."

There was a momentary silence. Then Ruth ventured: "Well, that - that's good … isn't it, Harry?"

_Yes,_ Ros thought. _And no._ It only meant that they knew where Mahmood _hadn't_ planted the bomb. Those lines _were_ a taunt all right … and a threat. She looked at Harry, who didn't appear to have heard Ruth's question; he seemed lost in his own thoughts. There was a strained pause, in the course of which six anxious eyes turned towards Ros. She cleared her throat.

"Harry, do you - "

"Was anything suspect found on him?" He interrupted her by firing the question at Lucas, his face a picture of frustration. Lucas shook his head uneasily. "Then it's still out there. Somewhere. Ruth, get hold of the Commissioner and the chief ops officer for the Met. Now!" He rapped his knuckles on the squawk box in the centre of the table, and Ruth shot out of the room as if the Wormwood Star itself was chasing her. "I want that whole area searched from end to end."

"They did that, Harry. Before it was sealed off," Callum interjected.

The glare Harry shot him would have felled a less solid ego."Then I want it done again. To be in there, he _must_ have got in through the access points either at the top of Fleet Street or at Aldwych. If he planted that bomb it's in there somewhere between the two. We have to find it."

_If,_ Ros thought. She met Harry's eyes. Unspoken and _certainly _unwanted, the 'M-word' was creeping into her mind. She wondered if it was troubling him as well.

"Harry, he's still on his way back to the Yard. And the ops officer's not available." Ruth's information elicited a minor explosion of Anglo-Saxon that needed no translation, and she cringed. "They'll have him on the line as soon as he gets back."

"Well in the - " Harry stopped in exasperation as Ros's mobile rang. Ros made a _moue_ of apology and then read the screen. _Khalida calling._ She put the phone on loudspeaker and replaced it on the table. "Go on, Khalida."

"Ros, I am still at Paddington Green." There was a cacophony of voices in the background to the call, making it difficult to catch her words. "Wait – just a moment." When her voice returned, it rang out more clearly. "Sorry, it is jolly hectic here."

"No worries. Are any of that group on the Watchlist?"

"Yes. Two, so far. But that is not the problem." They all heard her gulp. "It is Mahmood."

"What about him?" Ros asked, trying to keep her steadily rising tension out of her voice.

"Something is wrong, Ros - very wrong. It – you see, he is not Mahmood."

There was a second's stunned silence before a gasp of disbelief sped around the table. Harry leaned towards the phone. "Explain yourself!"

Khalida's voice sounded nervous at the barely-contained fury in his. "It was the identification procedure, Harry. Special Branch has Mahmood's fingerprints on file, and the prints of this man do not match them. They have taken a DNA swab, and it is being processed in the police lab now."

"Then they aren't sure?" It was Lucas who asked the question, but Ros knew it was more in hope than expectation.

"Almost, because there is more." Khalida, probably anticipating the reception they would get, was clearly reluctant to utter her next few words. "When they were asked to undress, this 'Mahmood' was found to be five feet ten. Asif Iqbal Mahmood is a little over six feet. He was wearing something in his shoes to give him the extra height, Harry."

_That clinches it. _There were ways of making a man look taller, but it was impossible to reduce anyone's height by three inches. Suddenly, Ros felt chilled through, and her nails dug into her palm.

"Have they _any_ idea who he is?" Harry barked.

"No, sir. _His_ prints are not on their files. He has given a name, but it is not one of which they have any record, and I very much doubt that it will be the real one."

Ros watched Harry's right hand slowly clenching into a fist. Without warning, it smashed down onto the table with such force that her phone was almost knocked to the floor. She grabbed it just in time.

"Right. Tell the SB I want him held for conspiracy under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. _And_ the rest of them. As soon as the SB has the results of that swab back, I want them e-mailed straight over to us. You stay until the identification procedures are completed, and and then I want you back here. Understood?"

"Yes, Harry." There was a slight quiver in Khalida's voice that Ros interpreted as fear of falling victim to shoot the messenger syndrome. She flicked off the loudspeaker and picked up the phone.

"Well done, Khalida." She tried to add some reassurance to the crispness of her tone. "We need you on the Grid now, soon as you can, OK?"

"Yes." Khalida hesitated. "Ros, have we been taken to the fairground?"

It took Ros a moment, and when she worked out the question, she longed to be able to give a convincing denial. She literally had to force the words out.

"It's possible. Hurry back."

"But … how can that _be_?" Ruth asked, as the call ended.

"That bloody original footage from the closing ceremony." Callum almost spat the words out as he turned from her to Harry. "Remember how we couldn't get a proper match with the face recognition? I said then that it looked as if he'd altered his appearance somehow – probably with plastic surgery." His eyes narrowed into glittering slits. "Son of a bitch."

"Then – then this was deliberate?" Ruth looked from one to the other. "So Mahmood was … what – using this man as a substitute?"

"Or a decoy," Lucas said quietly. Ros looked sharply at him. She still wasn't sure what track Harry's mind was taking, but Lucas's was clearly following the same path as her own. "If he deliberately changed his appearance to be almost identical to this man then they've been planning this for a long, long time."

"They couldn't have been," Ruth objected. "The parade was only formally announced last week."

Lucas shrugged. "Yeah, but the idea's been in the air for ages. Maybe they tweaked the plan. Once the Games themselves were over security got a bit slacker, people started to relax … they probably thought it would be a softer target."

"The why of what they've already _done_ isn't important now," Ros said firmly. She knew that talking was a way to cope with the shock Khalida's report had dealt to everyone, but they had to get back on track. "It's the how of what they might still be _intending_ to do we need to focus on." She looked at Harry, who had contributed nothing but a profound, stone-faced silence since the end of the phone call. Formally, she had been stood down as Gold Commander when the field operation ended. "Harry?"

There were a few seconds of silence during which she wondered whether he was going to answer at all. Then he lifted his head.

"Ruth, I want a secure call to either the Commissioner or his ops chief within the next five minutes. No delay, no excuses, tell the Yard it's a red call. Callum, get hold of that PPS at the Home Office, what's his name - "

"Beckenbridge," Lucas supplied.

Harry jerked his head in acknowledgement. "Beckenbridge. Scramble it. When you've got him, tell him to hold." He got to his feet with a brusqueness that sent his swivel chair shooting backwards against the wall with a clang of protest. "Lucas, find out what the hell's taking Chen so damned long in Kensington; I don't want Pemberton giving people the willies in Whitehall. Ros, come with me."

Ruth and Callum scrambled up and followed him. Callum even dropped his iPad in his haste, which was a more vivid illustration to Ros of their shared and swelling sense of urgency than a dozen red calls would have been. The feeling of quiet Triumph that had been seeping onto the Grid was already crumbling under its weight. She turned for the door, and then felt Lucas's hand on her arm.

"Misdirection?" he murmured.

_There it is. _The M-word that had been lurking in the wings of Ros's mind for the last twenty minutes, suddenly centre-stage and in the limelight. She bit her lip. "Maybe."

"_Shit_," Lucas said with vehemence. "The bomb could be anywhere in that section."

_Or nowhere. _A shiver ran through her and knowing how observant Lucas was, she folded her arms to prevent another. _Too late._

"You all right?" he asked sharply.

"Of course," Ros lied. "Air-conditioning." Lucas was as likely to swallow that as she was to believe that he'd developed a sudden passion for high diving, but she didn't want to explain the growing feeling of dread causing her to tremble. If Asif Iqbal Mahmood's doppelganger _had_ been there to draw their eye to him, the pub and its immediate environs, which now seemed hideously likely, then just how far had the terrorists' _trompe l'oeil _gone? _Could_ they safely circumscribe it just to the stretch of the City between Fleet Street and Aldwych? Pemberton's death did seem to follow the pattern of the terrorists 'mopping up' behind them_. _Assuming that he had been coerced into helping them plant the bomb, he would never be able to reveal its location to MI-5 now. But the parade – its target – was over. _It doesn't make sense. _Except in one way_ -_ one that brought the spectre of Disaster out of the shadows to loom large over the Section like a ghastly mushroom cloud.

"_Rosalind!"_ At the irascible bellow, both hurried out, Lucas heading for his desk, and Ros hot on Harry's heels. When she followed him into the office, he growled: "Shut the door." He looked at his watch. "They've got two minutes."

Ros hesitated. She had always trusted Harry, even when they disagreed with each other, and she knew the feeling was mutual. He had never objected to her querying a decision, provided she could back up her query with facts. The problem here was that she didn't have any, just an intensifying, icy dread that they were about to turn in a wrong and potentially catastrophic direction. Harry wouldn't change his mind just because of the knots in her stomach or the shivers down her spine. She moistened her lips and took a deep breath.

"Are you sure we need another search, Harry?"

The look with which he impaled her was so hostile that Ros could almost smell the sulphur.

"Aren't you? What, are you suggesting that we just sit and wait until half of the City becomes a wasteland fit only for experiments with mutant forms of plant life?" His telephone rang. "Pearce. Yes, Ruth. Good, put him through."

"Harry, wait! Listen. Give me a minute; just let me explain. Put him on hold – please!" She swallowed. Appealing to someone's better nature – even Harry's – didn't come easily, but somehow she _had _to make him listen. She went for the jugular. "Trust me, Harry."

She watched concern blur the edges of the impatient anger on his face as the uncharacteristic pleading note in her voice reached him. He hesitated, then snapped into the phone: "Five more minutes, Ruth. Have them hold." He turned back to Ros, still holding the phone. "Out with it."

Ros plunged in. "Harry, the parade's over, the crowds are starting to leave the area. If the bomb was there somewhere and they were going to detonate, they'd have done so by now. They'd want a spectacular, you said so yourself. A double impersonating Mahmood, the break-up of a noisy demonstration calculated to look as if it was there to provide him with cover to direct our focus onto him - and that area. I don't think the bomb's there." _Now the most delicate bit, the bit he really won't want to hear. _"I don't believe the parade was the target. I think we've been misdirected, Harry."

For thirty seconds that felt endless she held his gaze, willing him to accept the possibility. Her words hung in the air, poisoning it, Ros thought irrelevantly, more effectively than any wormwood, celestial or otherwise, could poison water. When Harry raised the phone to his ear, still watching her, her vision blurred ominously and a sudden buzzing filled her ears. His words had a metallic echo to them.

"Ruth, cancel the call. Stand them down. False alarm, and convey my apologies." He hung up. "Sit down. I don't allow swooning in the office." He pointed at the chair in front of his desk.

Ros groped her way into it and lowered her head for a moment to let the blood return. When she looked up again Harry was holding out a glass of water, and she drank it thankfully. He shook his head in what might have been admiration and could equally well have been sorrow.

"I never thought I'd say this about the possibility of having a bunch of fanatics pull the wool over my eyes, but by God, Rosalind, you had better be right. If you've misread this, you and I will be responsible for - "

A knock on the door interrupted him, and Lucas entered without waiting for the courtesies. With him was Chen Liu, dishevelled, panting, and wearing an expression that could have been pasted for the purposes of illustration next to any dictionary definition of the word 'panic'.

"Harry, Chen has some information you need to hear straightaway." Lucas looked and sounded perfectly cool and calm, but Ros sensed that he was holding himself in check to help the younger man, who was very obviously neither.

Harry waved them both to seats and gestured to the young Chinese to go ahead. As he always did, Chen looked to Ros for confirmation. She nodded and managed to produce a reassuring smile, which wasn't easy, since her chest was constricted with tension. She used her inhaler, indifferent to the presence of witnesses. After all, Chen was about the only member of the team who _didn't _know her bloody secret by now.

"Harry, we couldn't tell Pemberton about his son." Chen was still breathless, and the words tripped over themselves in his haste to blurt them out. Ros made a discreet 'slow down' gesture with one hand. "He wasn't there. But the maid – Vicky Leung – she was."

Ros expected Harry to interrupt - his face was set - but he said nothing. His eyes did meet hers for a split second, sufficient for Ros to see her own fears reflected in them.

"She said she'd been worried and she'd wanted to phone me – that is, Constable Tang - but she was afraid."

"Of what?" Harry said quietly.

"That day Alexander Pemberton came to the house he wasn't alone. He said the man he brought with him was a friend, but Vicky – she says she didn't like him. He was almost too polite, stiff – she couldn't really put it into words, sir – well, not in English, anyway. What she said, it would be … well, spooky, I suppose. Sinister, somehow." Chen seemed to realise he was running on, and blew out a deep, steadying breath. "Anyway, she went to make them some tea and he waited for Alex while he showered and changed, but the thing that's bothering her was afterwards. When she was cleaning Sir Roger Pemberton's bedroom. She says she's almost certain someone had been in there – things were 'moved about', she says, and she thinks it was Alex's friend."

"Wouldn't Sir Roger have noticed if a complete stranger had strolled off into his bedroom?" Sceptically, Harry put the question Ros had been about to ask. "Stopped him?"

"He wasn't there, sir. Vicky says he was out at the time so when she went to make the tea this – whoever he was – he was alone."

Harry and Ros exchanged glances, and Ros knew they were thinking the same thing. Because Sir Roger Pemberton had phoned the Home Secretary to inform him that his son had turned up, everyone in Section D had assumed that he was relaying first-hand information. _Jesus, Myers._ Ros closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. Such a _stupid,_ schoolboy error that could have been avoided by textbook adherence to MI-5's mantra, '_check, check and check again_'. If she had, they could have spoken to Vicky Leung long before this.

"Did she say _what_, specifically, had been 'moved about'?" Harry asked.

"She thought – she was almost sure – that it was a case, a small one, she says – and a largish holdall with parcels in it."

"How can she be sure?" Harry rapped.

She says it's because the pile of the carpet wasn't laying right and there were marks of some kind in the wrong place." Chen clearly wasn't too sure how significant that was, but Ros, from being raised in a succession of diplomatic residences with live-in staff, knew that it was precisely the kind of detail a trained domestic eye _would_ notice. "She was afraid he might have stolen something."

"And she didn't mention this to Sir Roger?"

Chen shook his head. "She said he was angry enough already when she told him Alex had just dropped in and then gone off again. She was frightened he'd take it out on her if anything _was_ missing." Chen hesitated. "You know how it is, Harry – she's an immigrant, low-paid, residence status tied to her job - "

Harry waved him to silence. "And you say Sir Roger isn't there now?"

Chen nodded unhappily."He's away on a business trip, sir." _Where he'll have taken the bags. _Ros felt sick. "I asked her where, but she doesn't know. Apparently it's hush-hush. Highly confidential. But he'll be back -"

"On Tuesday," Lucas, Harry and Ros said together like a Greek chorus. _Fitting, _Ros thought savagely. Ruth was the Section's classicist, but she knew enough to be aware that most Greek tragedies were based on the concept of the fatal flaw. In this case the flaw was hers, for carelessly making facile, hasty and _incorrect _assumptions linking Alex Pemberton's main usefulness to Mahmood and Hamid to his status as a well-known, trusted Olympic insider, when in reality it came from his position as Sir Roger Pemberton's son and the access to his father that they could obtain through him.

Chen pulled his glasses off, rubbed them on his sleeve and peered short-sightedly at Harry. "Yes. I did ask her for a description, Harry. What she said … it was very similar to that Identikit Khalida showed to Samakab Aideed. And the guy was tall."

_Just over six feet. _Ros wiped her damp hands on her trousers and her fingers crushed the fabric in impotent fury. Take one _criminally_ sloppy piece of intelligence work, one cabal of Machiavellian politicians, add a masterful piece of misdirection and mix well – a recipe for disaster, and now a calamity they might already be too late to prevent.

"Harry?" Callum was peering round the door. "Beckenbridge."

Harry's jaw tightened. "Patch it through. And bring Khalida in here." As Callum disappeared again, he activated the loudspeaker on his desk.

"Mr Beckenbridge, this is Harry Pearce at Thames House. Which hospital is the Home Secretary in?" Ros had barely counted two, and the PPS was still in the middle of his punctillious 'good afternoon' when he continued relentlessly, "He isn't in hospital at all, is he?"

"Mr Pearce, I don't think - " Beckenbridge began. Harry swept on unheeding.

"I'm only too painfully aware of _that_, Mr Beckenbridge. I also know that your professed concern about leaks doesn't relate to the state of Mr Towers's bladder but to information about a highly sensitive and secret oil agreement with the Saudi government that I believe to be in the final stages of negotiation and signature at this moment at an undisclosed location, probably in or near London." Harry was in full flow now; his voice rang with conviction. "Participants – William Towers, Sir Roger Pemberton, possibly the Foreign Secretary, and various high-ranking officials from the Saudi government and that country's oil industry. Please confirm."

The spluttering and stuttering that emerged from the loudspeaker did, and would have brought a sardonic grin to Ros's face at any other time.

"How do you – that meeting is classified top secret!"

Harry's voice was becoming more menacingly soft with every sentence. "Yes, how curious, you'd think my office would have been made a party to it, wouldn't you? Mr Beckenbridge!" as the politician embarked upon what sounded horribly like a blustering attempt at justification. "_I_ talk, _you_ listen_. Carefully._ We have intelligence that an explosive device has been smuggled into that location, and that your Minister, your precious oil deal, and your flourishing career are at imminent risk of being blown to pieces along with a sizeable chunk of the leadership of the most expensively-purchased British ally in the Middle East. You may demonstrate the fruits of your creative excuse-writing course on another occasion. Just now I require one simple piece of unembellished information, and if you fail to give it to me you will not only find yourself on the Back Benches once more but possibly also appearing before _the_ Bench in the Old Bailey in the not too distant future. W_here is this meeting being held?"_

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading! Please review! :)_


	18. Chapter 18

_**This should have been the last chapter. As ever, my wordiness got away from me and I will need to write another! Standard Bathroom Malodor does exist. And a big Thank You to the reader who gave me 'Polonium Abbey' - you know who you are!**_

_Chapter Eighteen_

"What now, Harry?" As the fruitless conversation with Sam Beckenbridge, whose middle name must have been 'I Don't Know', ended, Ruth's wide-eyed question broke the crackling tension that reminded Ros of the Bangkok electrical storms of her youth. Harry's eyes flickered over the analyst, but sought out Callum.

"Callum, use the emergency codes to contact the Cabinet Secretary. Tell him I need to speak to the PM on the secure video link – _now_ - and stress the urgency."

Callum nodded, and vanished, practically at a run. Harry turned to the others. "Tell the Broken Arrow team to stand by again; we may need them outside London. Be ready to move as soon as I give the word. No," as Ros got up to obey, "you stay here - and you, Lucas. Chen, Khalida, get on to it." The two junior officers scampered from the room.

"COBRA?" Lucas asked.

_No time,_ Ros thought, just as Harry shook his head. "Towers et al would be radioactive dust before we'd finished discussing the legalities." A rictus that might have been a distant cousin to a smile twisted his face. "When I told him I wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, that wasn't exactly what I had in mind." He glanced over his shoulder as the screen on the wall bleeped into life, and Callum re-appeared. "Well?"

"Five minutes, Harry." The technician took his seat at a small table, slipped on his earphones and started tapping rapidly at his keyboard. Ros exchanged a swift glance with Lucas; he looked anxious, and Ros knew how he felt. She had always thought of her own attitude to the rule book as being fairly flexible (several of her superior officers had preferred the word 'cavalier') but even for Harry this was exceptional. Going out on a limb was one thing; going out so far on one that it might have been attached to a giraffe, was something else.

"We're on." Callum's words turned everyone's eyes to the screen, which flashed, blurred, then resolved itself into the image of a man in jeans and an open-necked plaid shirt who clearly hadn't expected to be on formal duties again that day.

"Prime Minister, this is Harry Pearce, head of counter-terrorism at Thames House." Harry spoke briskly. "I have with me my deputy, Rosalind Myers, Senior Case Officer Lucas North, and my intelligence analyst, Ruth Evershed. I'm sorry to disrupt your evening, but we have a category one terrorist threat, and I need your authorisation for the measures required to contain it. I believe the immediate nature of the threat justifies my rather … unorthodox approach. We do not have the time to convene COBRA, sir."

The Prime Minister looked both rumpled and tired, but he nodded. "I know of your reputation and defer to your judgement, Mr Pearce. Please tell me as much as you think I need to know."

All of them saw the colour drain from his face, as Harry obliged. As a rule, Ros shared Harry's oft-proclaimed disdain for politicians, but now she felt an unwilling sympathy for the man on the screen. There wasn't going to be any hiding behind the doctrine of collective responsibility (described once by Harry as 'you cover my ass or I'll kick yours') this time - this was put up or shut up, or see your deal _blown_ up. She wondered what he would do.

There was a slight pause when Harry concluded. Then the Prime Minister gave a barely audible sigh.

"The meeting is being held at a location forty miles west of Oxford. Hallam Hall."

Ros recognised the name; an old manor house, bought and lavishly renovated some years ago by one of the many Saudi royal princes. The pieces were beginning to fall into place.

Harry turned to Ruth. "Find it, get the phone number, and contact the Met's Air Support Unit at Lippitt Hill. Tell them we'll need transport, preferably out of Battersea." He turned back to the screen. "My apologies, Prime Minister. Who's handling security?"

The response turned his face the colour of a ripe plum. "The Saudis insisted on being responsible for it themselves." The Prime Minister added placatingly: "The prince has a very efficient security staff, Mr Pearce."

"Then my officers will contact them at once," Harry retorted. "The safest - " He stopped as the other man interrupted.

"Mr Pearce, I'm afraid that's not possible. Confidentiality – _total_ confidentiality – was essential to the conclusion of this agreement. There is a communications blackout at Hallam Hall. It won't be lifted before the official announcement scheduled for tomorrow."

"What kind of blackout?" Harry demanded.

The face on the screen looked uneasy. "Er … I don't – ah – recall exactly how - "

"Faraday Cage." Harry swung round at Callum's words.

"Could you break it?"

Callum looked unusually doubtful. "Maybe … but only if we'd already bugged the place, Harry."

Harry's face darkened, and he turned a gaze on the Prime Minister that he usually reserved for officers about to be disciplined with a week on the public anti-terrorist hot line.

"Then it will mean alerting the local police to evacuate the building, sir. I will contact the Oxford Constabulary and - "

"Mr Pearce, I'm sorry, but it can't be done that way. A major security incident would alarm the Saudis. So would premature publicity, which would be inevitable if armed police flooded the village and went storming into the house. We cannot lose this agreement; it is far, _far_ too important to the country. Anything we do has to be done subtly - and discreetly."

_Oh, don't worry. We'll arrange for the sodding bomb to go off with a subtle, discreet little radioactive pop. _Ros glanced at Harry, expecting exasperation, and was surprised to see something like understanding.

"And do you have any idea of how we could achieve that, Prime Minister?"

_You must be joking._ Ros awaited the inevitable Pontius Pilate imitation returning the ball into their court.

"Yes." She blinked in surprise. "The Mayor was very much involved in the earliest stages of the negotiations. I'm not due to be at Hallam Hall, but he's expected late this evening. Perhaps … if you could accompany him …" He hesitated. "Of course, that would entail exposing civilians to risk - "

_Just the one_, Ros thought. Harry raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and she nodded back instantly. It was risky, bordering on reckless, _and_ came dangerously close to using the Mayor of London as a human shield. But to do nothing, knowing what they now knew, would be an act of far greater irresponsibility.

"Very well, Prime Minister. I will contact the Mayor and seek his agreement; I have bomb disposal and … hazard specialists … on standby. I cannot, of course, _guarantee_ subtlety and discretion – terrorists are, on the whole, not prone to either – but you may rely on the Service to do its utmost. If you will give me the green light?"

The Prime Minister ran a hand over his eyes and blew out a deep breath. "You have it, Mr Pearce, and my word that if this goes wrong, I will publicly acknowledge responsibility for authorising it. "

"I will do my best to ensure that it doesn't come to that, Prime Minister. My staff will stay in touch with your office. And now, if you'll excuse me - " He stood up, jerked his head at Ros and Lucas and walked out of the conference room.

"Right. You two are coming with me. Do you have a more appropriate change of clothes?"

"In the locker room, Harry." Lucas seemed too shell-shocked to reply, so Ros did it for him.

"Then go and smarten up. Ten minutes. Ruth!" Harry strode off, barking orders _en route._ Ros placed her hand firmly against Lucas's spine and shoved him into forward movement. In the locker room, he finally recovered his powers of speech.

"Ros, you do realise this goes against just about every rule in the book? Does Harry _really_ believe the PM will hold his hands up if things go pear-shaped? He'll throw us to the wolves – acting without COBRA's authority is damn nigh _criminal_! Harry could end up in jail – and all of us with him!"

"Yep." Ros threw her jeans and sweater into the locker, and reached for the grey wool suit inside. "Well there's always another, safer option, Lucas." As he began to change, she added, "You've got ten minutes to think of one. Meanwhile, _I'm_ going with Harry." She zipped her skirt, buttoned her jacket, and slipped into a pair of court shoes. "I'll see _you_ when we get back."

"Ros!" He grabbed her wrist. "No, no - I didn't mean that, it's just – you know, the rules - " he floundered to a halt. "Look, I – forget it. Wait – please? I'm coming."

"Not like _that_, I hope." Category one threat or not, Ros couldn't help smirking at the vision he presented in shirt and socks, with his trousers pooled around his ankles and a half-knotted tie crawling towards his left ear. "Subtle and discreet, after all, Lucas. PM's orders."

He gave a sheepish grin, hurriedly tidied himself up, and followed her back onto a buzzing Grid. Harry emerged from his office, also having done a quick-change act, and now dressed in his more usual suit and overcoat. He snapped his fingers at Khalida and Ruth to join them.

"Ruth, is the car waiting?"

The analyst nodded. "The mayor's meeting you at the heliport. Your chopper's on its way, and we're getting in contact with the nearest airfield to the house. CO-19 are already at Battersea."

"Good." Harry slapped his gloves impatiently against his palm. "Where's Callum?"

"Here." The technician arrived at a run with Chen on his heels, placed a radio in Harry's hand and gave one each to Lucas and Ros. "Phones won't work within the cage, Harry. We'll be monitoring the pre-set frequency, and I'm keeping a line open to the duty officers at Number Ten."

"And here are your I.D.s." Chen handed each of them a laminated card announcing Mr Oliver Simmons, Katharine Lancaster and Chris McKenzie respectively, from the mayor's personal staff.

"Right." Harry checked his watch. "Now, all of you - if this operation fails and none of us are able to contact you - for _whatever_ reason - then you follow emergency protocol B63; it's in my safe and Callum has the code to open it. No heroics, no deviations, do _exactly _as it says. Is that clearly understood?" He hesitated for a second. "Ruth?"

The analyst nodded, but she kept her eyes lowered, and there was a sudden hiatus. The uneasy silence was a stark reminder that if the clock ran against them, they could all three be making a one-way trip.

"See you, then. Hope your evening doesn't go with a bang." Callum's eyes were as anxious as anyone else's, but Ros was grateful for the attempt at flippancy. She gave him a quick, approving nod and led the way out of the pods.

oOoOoOo

A hair-raisingly fast drive down the Embankment took them past World's End – something Ros devoutly hoped _wasn't_ an omen – and across the river to the London Heliport. Two police Eurocopters were already waiting on the pad, crouching in the darkness like a pair of giant fireflies. Armed CO-19 officers were sitting in one, and Ros recognised the familiar, shambling silhouette of the Mayor outlined against the other. She and Lucas waited in the shadows, shivering in the wind blowing off the river, while Harry spoke to him and shook hands with two members of the Broken Arrow emergency team who would fly with them.

"Almost the Queen's Flight." Lucas grinned as they scrambled on board and the engines began to whine. "First time?"

Ros shook her head as the rotors began to thud slowly into operation. She took and released a very deep breath, and Lucas frowned.

"What's wrong?"

_I'm terrified of these bloody things, you idiot - me and Her Majesty both._

"Nothing." The rotors speeded up, and the pitch of the engines rose. She turned away towards the window as they lifted off from the pad, and stared at the twinkling lights shrinking beneath them. _OK, Myers, you're OK. Concentrate …_

The chopper suddenly banked steeply. Involuntarily, Ros dug her nails deep into the padded armrests of her seat.

"Ow." The plaintive murmur was barely audible above the thumping rotors and the shouted discussion between Harry and the Mayor in the row behind them, but when Ros half-turned she saw Lucas's grimace, and realised that her fingers were clamped to his arm. Before she could apologise, he released himself and linked arms instead. Then he put his mouth close to her ear and pointed to the receding floodlit silhouette of the Olympic Stadium.

"Got one advantage over Her Maj. At least we don't have to jump out into that."

Ros rolled her eyes, but she kept her hand gripped on his as the chopper weaved and clattered west, away from the sparkling tapestry below them. At one point, Harry squeezed past them and spoke to the pilot; when he returned to his seat, he leaned over and shouted: "Ten minutes. Car will be waiting; we'll hold CO-19 in reserve."

Ros gave him a thumbs-up with her free hand as the chopper swooped in a wide arc and began to descend. Lucas leaned across her, peered out of the window and mouthed 'Kidlington' over the engine noise. Ros nodded, swallowing hard as the wind buffeted them, and closed her eyes in sheer relief as the pilot settled the wobbling craft down onto the concrete. Lucas patted her shoulder and winked.

"Worst over. Now all we have to do is find the bomb and disarm it. Piece of cake."

_Yeah, right_, Ros thought, as the car that had met them carried her, Lucas, Harry and the Mayor through darkened countryside along a bumpy B road towards Hallam Hall. The CO-19 team had been dispatched to an agreed holding point half a mile to the east of the estate park, and the two Broken Arrow bomb disposal experts, under the guise of being the Mayor's bodyguards, clung to their tail in a smaller car. Tension was mounting steadily as Harry, leaning over the front seat, outlined for the Mayor's benefit what procedure would be when they arrived at their destination. Ros thought the latter, his bulk squashed between herself and Lucas, seemed remarkably composed for a man who was about to put his life on the line. Now, as Harry finished, he nodded.

"Humbug." The word came out muffled by the fact that he was sucking one, and Harry's eyes flashed until he saw the bag held out to him and realised that the word was an invitation, rather than a comment on his briefing. Ros quickly stifled a smile. _Humour - ever since the days of chivalry and chain mail, the Briton's defensive weapon of choice._

The jocularity came to an abrupt end as the car slowed and turned left where a fine stone wall yielded to two large, forbidding steel gates that totally shattered the illusion of rustic peace and tranquillity. Two dazzling spotlights came to life, blazing down on the cars. Ros squinted through the glare and spotted two CCTV cameras swivelling their lenses down towards them. As the gates hissed back and two armed guards stepped out, the driver slid down the window.

"Mayor Johnson and his staff," he said.

"Identification." The senior held out his hand. Harry handed over those of Ms Lancaster and Messrs Simmons and McKenzie. The mayor leaned forward and asked cheerfully: "Want mine too?" He held out a plastic card on a ribbon patterned with the Olympic logo. "Damned rotten picture."

The guard's expression didn't flicker. "That won't be necessary, sir. Please wait." He disappeared back through the gates. Ros caught Lucas's glance through the shadows and gave a tiny shrug.

"You're cleared." The guard handed back the cards and waved them through. Ros breathed again as the car crunched slowly up the gravelled drive towards the lights streaming from the ground floor windows.

"Fine place," the mayor said approvingly. "Palladian house."

_More like Polonium Abbey._ When they got out of the car, Harry told the driver to stay put, and removed the mayor's overnight case, garment bag and briefcase from the boot himself. He handed them to Lucas, and beckoned the two bomb disposal officers, one of whom was also carrying a sizeable briefcase.

"Right, all three of you take the Mayor's bags up to his room. Then you find Pemberton's, locate that damned bomb and defuse it. Lucas, use your judgement. If you don't believe there's sufficient time to do it safely, then radio me. We'll evacuate, and publicity be damned." Lucas nodded tautly. "Ros?" Reluctantly, she repeated her orders.

"Find Towers and brief him." She had argued that she should go with Lucas, but Harry had barked at her to do as she was told. Ros knew when to back down, and she had, even as she wondered unhappily if he no longer thought her able – physically or otherwise – to cope.

"Good." Harry briefly activated his radio. "Callum? On site." He slammed the boot with a crack as the door of the house opened, spilling an arc of creamy yellow light towards them. "Mr Mayor? Are you ready?"

"Lead on, Mr Simmons." The mayor's thatch of blond hair looked like a windswept dandelion. "Lead on!"

However much of an act it might be, Ros thought, as he, in fact, led their little convoy to the door, his cheery, bluff approach was oddly reassuring; it took the edge off her terror of the nightmare lurking beyond those intricately carved wooden doors. They followed in his wake and ran the gamut of an entirely male receiving line. Ros, the only woman in sight, cringed inwardly. _Should have thought of that. _She knew that the Arabs were far too polite to publicly object to her presence, but more than ever she wished that Harry would allow her to go and defuse the damned bomb, which at least wouldn't care what sex she was.

As the thought occurred, she glimpsed Lucas and the Broken Arrow officers slipping out of the reception room. Almost simultaneously, she caught sight of William Towers, staring incredulously at her and Harry across the room. Harry eased up to her elbow.

"Wipe that bloody gawp off his face," he muttered and turned aside. Ros joined the Home Secretary.

"Hello, sir." She summoned up her best shy smile. "My name's Katharine Lancaster; I'm Mayor Johnson's secretary."

"Charmed." The words came out between gritted teeth. "_What the hell is going on?"_

Ros sipped her drink and murmured: "There's a bomb hidden in the house."

Towers blanched. "In _here_? Jesus Christ - "

Ros noticed that Harry had quietly detached Sir Roger Pemberton from a small group of mixed Arabs and Europeans. "We know where it is, Home Secretary – _I hope _– and we've brought bomb disposal. Everything is under control."

"Under con - " Towers spluttered. "How the hell did - " He seemed unable to finish a sentence. He followed Ros's glance. "Is Harry still harrassing Pemberton? What the _hell _does he think he's playing at?" He took half a step as if he were going to go and demand an answer; quietly, Ros blocked his path.

"Home Secretary, we have strict orders from Downing Street not to cause alarm or let this go public." She smiled at a young Arab who seemed attracted rather than offended by her presence, then allowed him to pass out of earshot. "I assure you that if there is any risk we'll evacuate the building." The radio clipped to her skirt crackled. "The PM requests that you carry on as normal and allow us to do our job." The PM had requested no such thing, but Ros judged that the two magic letters might just keep Towers in line. She moved into the shadow of the window drapes. "Yep."

"Found it." Lucas sounded tense. "It's on a timer."

"How long?" Ros murmured, watching Harry, who was deep in conversation with Sir Roger Pemberton and two Saudis.

There was a hesitation. "Eighteen minutes. But it's sophisticated, Ros. They'll have to take it slowly."

"Can they do it?" she snapped.

Another slight pause. "Yeah, they think so."

_Think?!_ Ros heard a familiar booming voice as the mayor joined Towers. She felt cold sweat dampening her skin at the reminder of just how much power, wealth and influence was less than twenty minutes from being blown sky-high – along with the government's long-term energy policy _and_ its relations with most of the Middle East. She couldn't, _surely_, risk all that on '_think'._

"Lucas, this isn't Hollywood. Are they absolutely _sure_?"

She knew the answer even before he relayed the bomb disposal officer's words. _Bomb disposal doesn't do 'absolutely sure', Ros._

She cut the link and slipped as swiftly as she could over to Harry, who listened to her muttered report, then edged his way to a corner and got on the radio. With an effort, Ros made small talk with one of the Saudis, blushingly accepting his compliments on her Arabic, until Harry returned to rescue her.

"No guarantees. We clear the building. _Without_ alerting them." His lips were barely moving.

"How?" she muttered, as the babble of conversation rose and fell around them and the mayor's laugh boomed through the room.

Harry glanced at his watch. "Give me two minutes; you'll find out." He put down his glass and headed for the door, pausing to speak to one of the staff before he disappeared.

"He is a … genial man, the mayor." Her Saudi admirer gave an enigmatic smile, and Ros managed to return it. Five minutes had elapsed since she spoke to Lucas, still up there with the bomb. Unbidden, her mind flicked back to the hotel explosion, and nausea, born of fear for him, swept through her. Six minutes. _What the hell is Harry up to?_

The answer came as she realised that her nausea wasn't only induced by fear. A stench, more foul than anything she had ever experienced, was drifting into the room. Conversation faltered. Discreet, and then more marked coughing broke out; puzzled glances were exchanged, and grimaces of disgust appeared. Ros, holding a napkin to her own mouth and trying not to retch, spotted Harry slipping back into the room.

"What in God's name's causing that?" It was Towers, looking pale and sick like almost everyone else.

Ros shook her head; the smell was indescribable, eye-wateringly strong, and reminded her of public toilets in some of her father's more remote postings. Staff moved hastily to throw open the French windows, and several gagging people rushed gratefully through them. Within sixty seconds, the entire room had followed suit and, pursued by the stink, poured across the lawns. Someone caught Ros's elbow, and when she turned, she saw Harry.

"What -" she coughed again, and pain stabbed from beneath her ribs. "What did you - "

"Standard Bathroom Malodor." Harry coughed and spat.

"What the hell is - " Ros began, but he shook his head. "Later. Radio Lucas."

She obeyed. All around them, members of staff were shepherding guests apologetically away from the main house towards a smaller lodge, as a well-bred, only slightly accented voice explained something about a plumbing problem. When Lucas answered, he sounded as sick as she felt, and very tense.

"Almost there." He choked the words out. "Ros – everyone out?"

"Yes." She gulped back panic. "Lucas, will they do it?"

"Yeah -" he gave a rasping cough, "yeah – I think so."

_Bloody _'_I think_' _again._ _Shit!_ As Ros hesitated, Harry snatched the radio from her. "Lucas, you have three minutes. Get yourself to safety."

"No … nearly there, Harry -"

"That's an order! _Get out_!" Harry barked. He turned to Ros. "You all right?" When she nodded, fighting back the urge to throw up on the neatly manicured lawn, he grabbed her arm and manoeuvred her towards the lodge. Ros dug in her heels.

"Harry, we can't just leave him in there! " The memories of being in the same situation in reverse in the hotel were just too strong.

"He knows what to do. He has his orders." Harry's grip on her arm didn't falter. "So do we."

He thrust her through the door after the last few stragglers, and slammed it. Ros checked her watch. Ninety seconds.

"Mr Simmons." Both swung round. The owner of the house was standing next to them. "I do apologise for this deplorable incident; quite unforgivable. I fear quaint old English houses, even the most well-kept, sometimes have quaint old English plumbing. Please, come this way."

Harry, a tight smile on his face, nudged Ros in front of him and followed their host through a door that unexpectedly emerged not into a room filled with guests but into a small and exquisitely decorated study. The prince firmly closed and locked the door behind them. When he turned, the charming smile had been replaced by a grave and wary expression.

"I remember you." He addressed Harry. "When I was at Sandhurst; you were in military intelligence. Came to give us a weekend's instruction on the recruitment and running of undercover assets." His handsome face creased in thought. "Major … Pearce, I believe?"

Ros had been staring in transfixed horror out of the window towards the house as her watch ticked off the final seconds to detonation. Now the lethal movement of the second hand seemed to stop in its tracks as she looked in shock at Harry. His mask had dropped too; he met the Arab's stern expression with one of his own.

"I do not believe you are now Mayor Johnson's _aide-de-camp," _the prince continued quietly. "If I remember correctly, you transferred from the army to MI-5. In fact, I believe you are still employed at Thames House?" He paused for a confirmation that never came. "I will take silence as an acknowledgement, Major Pearce. Perhaps I might then enquire what exactly is the reason for your presence here?"

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review! :)_


	19. Chapter 19

_**This is the final chapter, although there will be an Epilogue to follow. So many thanks to everyone who has stuck with it, and special thanks to those of you who not only read, but review too. Your comments and opinions add enormously to the joy of writing. Thank you!  
**_

_Chapter Nineteen_

Ros leaned on the wall and gazed wearily at the view from the roof. The brief shower was already ending, and a rainbow was slowly beginning to arc its way across the river, giving the weak, hazy light a golden sheen. Had she been given to whimsy, she might have thought the tentative return of the sun after the storm an appropriate image.

_What exactly is the reason for your presence here? _The prince had dropped such a bombshell with those quiet words that it took a few seconds for Ros to realise that the countdown had expired without the _other_ bomb going off. _They must have defused it!_

"Harry!" She tapped her watch and gestured towards the house. Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second and then nodded.

"_Carefully. _Check with Lucas. Report back." Instantly she had darted from the room, just catching Harry's deferential '_Your Highness, there is an explanation. If I may?' _as she did so. For once – incredibly - the Old Boy Network, which Ros sometimes thought had been created for the express purpose of putting obstacles in the Service's way, had worked in their favour. The prince, educated at Winchester and taught the art of soldiering at Sandhurst, fell into the category of foreigners Harry was wont to describe wryly as 'more British than the British'. Rather than exploding like a human dirty bomb himself when apprised of the situation by his former instructor, he rose to the occasion. With a few discreet orders to his staff, the remainder of the evening was moved smoothly to the lodge. Gracious apologies, lightly sprinkled with a touch of dry humour, dealt with the pungent traces of the 'plumbing problem', and a crisp 'tell me what you need, Major Pearce' had allowed Harry free rein to take charge of everything else.

Of course, it wasn't all rainbows and doves of peace, Ros mused. Yes, they had saved lives, prevented Mahmood's attack and thereby thwarted what would almost certainly have been a lethal blow to British economic and political interests in the Middle East – _discreetly_. Exactly what their political overlords had demanded. On the minus side, Alex Pemberton and Dominic Hastings had been killed in the process. Somewhere, Asif Iqbal Mahmood was still at large. And then there was Lucas.

He wouldn't even register a _'blip'_ on the political radar, Ros thought bitterly. William Towers, his elegant suit still lightly scented with Standard Bathroom Malodor, hadn't even known his name. And both she and Harry had been too busy ensuring the safe removal of the device, breaking the news of Alex's death to his father, and reporting back to the Grid and Downing Street to spare much time for him. By the time Ros _had_ been able to, it had been too late.

She rubbed her hands together and shivered; the rain –and her thoughts - had chilled her. _Five more minutes._ She desperately needed the privacy to steady herself and to thwart the tension headache that had been trying its level best to rehearse a steel drum band inside her skull for the last two hours. _Not much to ask._

"Ros!"

_On the other hand …_ She silently counted to ten. _Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. Aristotle. Appropriate. _She took a deep breath and turned towards the section's Classicist-in-Chief.

"What is it, Ruth?"

"Harry needs you." Ruth, unlike her, had had the sense to wear her coat. She wrapped it around herself uncomfortably as the wind gusted across the roof. "Aren't you cold?" She looked disbelieving when Ros shook her head, and Ros was relieved to reach a more sheltered corner before she betrayed the lie by shivering again.

"The Home Secretary wants to see you both." As they approached the door to the stairwell, Ruth stopped. "Ros, do we know anything more? Lucas, I mean?"

Ros tensed. "What _about_ Lucas?"

"Well, whether there's anything we can do. Harry always says the Section looks after its own, whatever happens. Just because Lucas has been k - "

Ros cut her off. "It's in hand. If there's anything needs to be done for Lucas, I'll do it."

Ruth flushed, but she stood her ground. "Ros, there are procedures – shouldn't we contact his family?"

"I _know_ the bloody procedures, Ruth; I said I'll deal with it!" Ros shoved the stairwell door open. As she would have moved forward, Ruth pulled her hand away from the handle. Ros jerked back as the metal door clanged shut an inch from her face.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're playing at?" Ruth's silence inflamed her anger further. "What's the matter with you?"

If she had expected the other woman to retreat into her usual burbling timidity, she was sorely disappointed.

"It's what's the matter with _you_!" Ruth flared. "Don't you even care? You must have _known_ the risk, yet you just left him there!"

The intensity and suddenness of her attack so stunned Ros that for a moment she was reduced to the same flustered stammering that she had so often derided in Ruth herself. Quickly, she pulled herself together.

"I followed orders, Ruth. So did Lu - "

"Oh!" Ruth threw her hands up. "Now where have I heard that one before?"

Ros felt the blood rush into her face. She moved forward again, but Ruth stepped between her and the door. "Get out of my way."

"Why?" Ruth challenged. "So you can run away from the truth again?"

The last fraying restraints on Ros's temper snapped. This showdown had been a long time brewing.

"Judge me when you _know _the truth! You know _nothing_ about being a field officer, Ruth - except the view you get from your pulpit up there on the moral high ground. If the day ever comes when you get closer to the murk and filth we have to wallow in than turning your patronising bloody nose up at the smell we bring back, _then_ you can preach to me about truth. Now _let me pass."_

"No." Ruth said firmly. "I _do_ know the truth. You're -

"Cruel, a bully, and an all-round heartless bitch, yes, I know. Gold medallist in long-distance sociopathy. _Mea culpa, _forgive me my sins, Saint Ruth. I'll leave a lighted candle on your desk."

" - afraid," Ruth continued, calmly ignoring her heated interruption. "In this one way, Ros, you're a rotten bloody coward."

A_ what? _For a second Ros was certain she must have misheard. "How _dare_ you!"

"I dare because no-one else will! Ros - " now the other woman's voice became entreating as she seized Ros's arm. "Ros, _please. _Listen to me." As Ros tried to pull herself free, she tightened her grip. "You owe him more than this - Lucas. We're none of us blind. It's been obvious how much you've meant to him over the last year. And _vice versa_." Ros shook her head in denial. "Look, I understand you've been scared to admit it - "

"And what the hell qualifies _you_ to judge _my_ feelings?" Ros wrenched her arm loose. "Turning Harry into a bloody lovesick swain for the last four years? Stringing him along with a pat on the hand and the occasional flutter of the eyelashes? I seem to remember he proposed marriage to you, so what – it wasn't enough? You haven't quite finished yet loading him with the burden of guilt for what happened to George and Nico? God forbid that _you_, little Miss Perfect, might be as much of a coward when it comes to making a bloody commitment as you claim _I _am! "

Instead of losing her own temper – as anyone less surely destined for sodding canonisation _would_ have done, Ros thought savagely – Ruth shook her head with a smile that looked genuinely sad. _"Contra principia negantem non est disputandum."_

"_What_?" Ros snarled. It was bad enough that the woman had the brazen _gall_ to encroach on her personal privacy; flaunting her scholarship in the process was intolerable.

Ruth sighed. "With those who deny the principles, there can be no discussion."

_Well at least we agree on that._ Ros was about to say as much when Ruth added softly: "Denial doesn't make them go away, though, Ros."

"Oh, really? And since _you _say so, that's official, is it?" Ros fought down the rising temptation simply to shove the analyst aside. Doing that would only display the petulance she could already hear in her own voice. She was acutely conscious of coming off worst in this verbal duel. Normally she could cut Ruth down to size with one sarcastic put-down; this time, Ruth had caught her on the back foot, and fighting a rearguard action wasn't Ros Myers's strong point.

"Not official," Ruth answered, still with that maddening composure. "Just right. You see, I play that game, too - denying the obvious."

For a moment Ros was lost for words. Ruth started toying with the fringe of her scarf. A half-smile flickered and died.

"What I mean is - you're not wrong. About Harry and me." She shrugged. " OK, I suppose you could have put it more kindly, but that's not your way, is it?"

Ros watched her fingers busily screwing the material into creases. There had always been a huge chasm – differences of opinion, in attitude, of character – between her and Ruth, with the analyst's resentment of Ros's contribution to her forced exile on one side of it and Ros's pent-up bitterness about Ruth's glee at her father's downfall on the other. The gulf was still there, but now, for the first time, Ros glimpsed a fragile, wobbly bridge inching across. She swallowed hard and took an uncertain step onto it.

"No, it's not. So don't hold your bloody breath waiting for an apology."

Ruth laughed nervously. "Hardly. You've told me that before, remember?" She jumped as her mobile rang.

"Harry." She hurriedly moved the phone further from her ear as Harry's voice rattled into it. "Yes, no. No, we're coming. Yes – sorry. Yes. On our - "

"Way," Ros finished dryly, as the call was abruptly ended.

"Yes. Better go, he's – er - "

"I heard." Ros pulled the door open and made a mockingly courteous 'after you' gesture. Ruth smiled faintly as she stepped into the stairwell, but as Ros closed the door, she blurted: "Ros, he asked me to go to dinner with him tonight. Harry. Now the op's over. He says he wants to talk about his plans ... the future."

The strip light was broken, and Ros couldn't quite see her face in the shadows.

"And what did you say?"

She heard the echoing metallic ring of Ruth's feet shuffling on the steps.

"I – I said … I'd think about it."

"Coward," Ros said softly.

There was a long pause. "Yes. Takes one to know one, Ros." Ruth activated her mobile screen; her eyes sparkled in its glow. "But it's Lucas I'm … Ros, remember when we got Malcolm to hack into Six's files, you and I? All those risks you took to prove Lucas _wasn't_ responsible for the Dakar bombing? I do; you put your career on the line for him. _You _were the one who went and brought him home. He'd want it to be you who sorts things out now, Ros, not some impersonal Service pen-pusher. _You._" Her voice was pleading. "I know he would."

Ros rubbed her eyes, which were stinging – tiredness, not to mention the dust. "I'll make - " her voice cracked; she swallowed hard and tried again. "I'll make some calls. And when – _if_ it's – I'll contact his father." She lifted her chin defiantly. _Myers's First Law of Argument: Always Get The Last Word._ "But first I have to go with Harry. Put this thing to bed. _Then_ I'll do … whatever needs doing." She paused for a second. "Enjoy your dinner." The words sounded like an order rather than good wishes, but she caught Ruth's fleeting smile of complicity as they headed down to the Grid.

oOoOoOo

Their drive to the Home Office was unusually silent. Thanks to her conversation with Ruth, Ros's headache had worsened, and Harry seemed preoccupied with a long envelope he kept tapping on his knee. When Ros had parked, she pointed at it and enquired: "O.R.?"

Harry smiled sardonically as he climbed out. "In a manner of speaking." Ros raised her eyebrows. "Not Ops Report. Official Resignation."

For a moment Ros didn't know what to say. The pressure of events had driven Harry's resignation right out of her mind. Half of her hadn't believed it would ever happen. The Grid without Harry Pearce would be like Christmas without a turkey – not, she thought, a comparison that he would appreciate.

"You're submitting it now?" she asked. _And the award for the most unnecessary question goes to …_

Harry held the door for her, and both showed their I.D. "I said I would. It's important, Ros - knowing when to stop. I wanted to leave the Section in a safe pair of hands. I've found one." He squeezed hers, and rapped sharply on the Home Secretary's office door. "So it's time to go."

"Ah, Harry." William Towers bustled across the office and shook hands enthusiastically. "Good of you to drop in." He extended his hand to Ros; surprised, since he normally contented himself with a wary nod, she took it and said politely: "Good afternoon, Home Secretary."

"Good afternoon, Miss Myers." His eyes twinkled. "It _is_ Miss Myers? For today, at least?"

Ros allowed herself a slight smile. "For today, sir, yes." Towers turned to a side table and poured two glasses of whisky. He handed one to Harry and turned to Ros.

"I don't want to be accused of sexism, chauvinism, or indeed alcoholism, Miss Myers, but I suspect this isn't your tipple of choice. However - " He lifted a bottle of gin enquiringly.

Ros bit back a smile. She was female, so for Homo Politicus she was bound to drink gin and tonic rather than Scotch. Pushing aside unwelcome memories of Connie James, she nodded politely and accepted the drink he poured.

"So," he said jovially, settling comfortably into his own chair. "Just wanted to congratulate you on a damned good job, Harry. PM asked me to convey his deepest gratitude too. You'll know the deal's signed, sealed and delivered – oil supplies secured. Lot of people out there should be very grateful to you and your team." He swirled his whisky round the glass. "Or rather they _would_ be, if they knew who the Dickens you were. That's the trouble with public service, especially yours. Take the flak when it goes wrong, plenty of that. Rare times something goes right, some other bod steps up and takes the credit."

Ros couldn't help wondering if he – and possibly the Prime Minister – had someone specific in mind. Rumours had been circulating ever since the Olympics closing ceremony about the prospects for the mayor of London replacing one of them.

Harry smiled politely. "In Thames House we're rather used to that, Minister. It's the unwritten part of our job description."

"Mm." Towers raised his glass. "Well done, all the same. Threat neutralised … political fall-out contained. Pretty successful operation, I'd say. Quite a triumph."

"Unless you're Alex Pemberton and his father," Harry said mildly. "Or indeed, Dominic Hastings."

The politician gave vent to a sudden cough that could have meant his Scotch had gone down the wrong way, but could equally well have been an indication of his discomfort at being reminded of the less savoury aspects of his 'triumph'.

"Yes, of course. Tragic. Very distressing. Has anyone – er - "

"I believe Mr Hastings' family has been notified of his death." Harry glanced at Ros. "And of course Sir Roger has been informed." He paused. "In some detail."

"Hmm. Yes. Spoke to him myself. Once he came back from the medical checks and – um – decontamination." Ros flinched at the word, and quickly sketched impassivity back onto her face. Harry's was expressionless, but she knew his thoughts had swung in the same direction as her own. "Damned bad show."

He reached to put his glass down and almost knocked over a large vase of lilies. To Ros's chagrin, he caught it before it fell. The heavy, cloying scent of the flowers had been making her feel slightly nauseous ever since they came in. "Sorry. Still trying to drive the stench of Harry's stink-bomb out of my nostrils." He caught the surreptitious glance between the two intelligence officers. "God help me if my bathroom ever smells like that. Where the hell did you _get_ that thing, Harry? Or do you keep a cupboard full of them just in case?"

Harry's lip curled. "Alas, no - although one would certainly come in useful, Home Secretary. An old friend working across the pond 'borrowed' a few some time ago. Gave me that one as a joke a few years back. Never quite fathomed American humour, myself."

Ros, who knew the identity of the 'old friend' because Harry had told her, lowered her gaze. She remembered Bob Hogan, the former CIA station chief in London, only too well for a variety of reasons, most of which she would rather forget. She looked up again as Harry, having drained his glass, placed it with a firm clunk onto the Home Secretary's desk, and said briskly: "Sir, there are a couple of less agreeable aspects of this operation that you should know about."

Now the more familiar, wary expression was back on Towers' face. "I'd never have guessed." He sighed. "Go on then, Harry. Make my day."

Ros watched him as Harry reported their continuing efforts to track down Asif Iqbal Mahmood, and the frustrating search for solid and admissible evidence against Mamnoon Hamid. In an effort at reassurance, he also mentioned the information that they were gradually extracting from some of the other men arrested on the day of the parade and adding to the already bountiful harvest from regular phone taps and spyware embedded in e-mail accounts by themselves, Special Branch, and GCHQ.

Towers blew out a long, slow breath when he finished. "In other words, this isn't over. We've just earned … what? A ceasefire?"

"More like a breathing space, Home Secretary. A small one."

Towers nodded. "As much as we could hope for, I imagine." He finished his whisky, pointed at the envelope in Harry's hand and held out his own. "Is that the ops report?"

Ros and Harry exchanged glances and then Harry turned his gaze on William Towers.

"No, Home Secretary." He leaned forward and placed the envelope on the desk. "This, as we agreed, is my resignation from the post of Head of Counter-Terrorism."

Two lily petals chose that moment to drop from their stem onto William Towers's desk. The silence was so profound that Ros could have sworn she heard them land.

"I did inform you I intended to submit it. And I believe you told me it would be gratefully accepted. Over breakfast, if I remember correctly."

_That's one way of putting it._ As Ros recalled, the 'acceptance' had been a dismissal by any other name. Towers drummed his fingers on the desk as Harry gazed equably at him, then reached out and took the envelope. Instead of opening it, he swivelled his chair towards Ros.

"What do you think of this?" he demanded abruptly.

It was very rare for Ros to be caught off guard by a politician. She usually found the species as easy to predict as yesterday's weather, but the unexpectedness of the man's question was such that to her irritation, she heard herself stumble.

"It's – er – I - I believe it's Harry's opinion and yours that are important, sir. Not mine."

Towers grimaced. "Are you planning a second career as a politician, Miss Myers? Because you'll need better evasive tactics than that. I don't believe a woman like you doesn't _have_ an opinion."

Ros smiled an enigmatic smile and said nothing. _You can't lose votes with a speech you didn't make._ Towers grunted and returned his gaze to Harry.

"DG at Thames House aware of this?"

"He will be by now." Harry glanced at his watch. "I've made an appointment to see him in person later today."

"Very well. Very well." Towers was visibly irritated by the shattering of his well-orchestrated celebratory _ambience_. "You know the Wise Men will have to meet. Take soundings, draw up a short-list of candidates. You'll stay through the process."

Harry inclined his head. "Of course. Now, if you'll forgive us," as he rose, "I still have a few housekeeping matters to deal with – debriefings, reports and the like."

They were almost at the door when Towers said suddenly: "Hold on, Harry!" He came round the desk. "There were three of you. At Hallam Hall. Your other chap all right? One who dealt with the … er … the - device. Pemberton mentioned something, some problem during the checks. McKechnie, McKenzie?"

"Chris McKenzie. His real name is Lucas North." Harry hesitated. "This is strictly confidential, Home Secretary."

"I promise faithfully not to tweet it to the world. Not a dicky-bird." Towers looked momentarily amused at his own joke until he saw the stony expression on Harry's face and noticed Ros concentrating on the office carpet. "Sorry. He _is_ all right?"

"Not particularly. Lucas was imprisoned for some years by the Russians, and had been badly ill-treated by the time we managed to exchange him. He's made a good recovery, but some of the scars remain. He has a particular terror of water, especially the use of it in … intensive interrogation."

"Torture." Ros looked up, startled, and saw the man behind the politician. "Hell. The decontamination procedure?"

"Yes. I'm afraid he went to pieces. Panicked, tried to resist them, lost control completely." Harry rubbed his eyes. "They had to sedate him in the end. Lucas and high-pressure hoses don't mix. I'm afraid the fault lies with me - "

"With _us_," Ros said softly.

"We should have been alert to the risk. But both Ros and I had other things on our mind."

"Where is he now?" Towers asked.

"He's been under observation in hospital for the last two days, and talking – I hope – to the doctors. He may be released today. Then I'm sending him on a few days leave." He smiled grimly. "Without the option."

"Well, I don't suppose thanks and best wishes from me will make him feel any better." William Towers cleared his throat; he looked genuinely embarrassed, Ros thought. "But do pass 'em on anyway. Not entirely unaware of the risks you people take. Much appreciated. I'll be in touch."

oOoOoOo

Harry and Ros murmured their thanks and left. Torrential rain had started again during the meeting, so Harry drove back, and Ros sat silently, lost in her own thoughts. The Broken Arrow team had wrapped the disarmed bomb safely in the lead cladding they had brought with them, and removed it. At their insistence, Sir Roger Pemberton and Lucas, both of whom had been exposed to the device without benefit of protective clothing, were flown back to their base to undergo decontamination and medical checks – '_for safety's sake'._ Although she had gone through them in the past herself, Ros, distracted by juggling several critically important balls at once, hadn't given the consequences for Lucas a second thought – until her phone had rung. Since then they, and guilt at her failure to anticipate them, had haunted every waking hour.

Although the terror threat level was still locked on 'severe', the atmosphere on the Grid had relaxed notably in the last two days, with murmured conversation and laughter replacing the previous frenetic tension. Harry and Ros's damp, squelching arrival barely turned a head until Khalida called: "Harry! Harry!" Waving her phone, she threaded her way nimbly through the maze of desks, and thrust it into Harry's hand. "It's Lucas!"

"Lucas?" Khalida had waved Ruth over too, and Chen Liu, who had vanished into the tech suite at her shout, returned with Callum in tow. "Hold on." Shooing the knot of officers ahead of him like a flock of unruly chickens, Harry took refuge in the conference room. Ruth, Callum, Chen Liu and Khalida pressed eagerly around him as he put the phone on loudspeaker. Ros closed the doors, folded her arms and leaned quietly against the wall a few feet away.

"Sorry, lad." Harry sat down. "Go on. Are they releasing you?"

"Yeah. Don't think it's for good behaviour, though." Despite the flippant reply, Lucas's voice sounded strained, and Ros saw Harry frown.

"Were the medical checks clear?" he asked.

" Yep. Physically, they reckon I could join Team GB. Though maybe not in swimming, diving or water polo." Lucas laughed, but there was more embarrassment than amusement in the sound, and Ros winced inwardly. "Just one thing, Harry – they insist. Stupid and unnecessary, and I've told them as much, but … well, it's chucking it down. And they -"

Harry cut his discomfort short. "I'll come down in a couple of hours and pick you up. Just stay put."

"Thanks." Lucas's relief was audible. "Sorry for the trouble, Harry, but I don't think they fancy a slow-motion replay_._"

"No trouble," Harry said. "Just wait until I get there."

He hung up on Lucas's awkward expressions of gratitude, and looked around the group. "Good news!"

_Not for everyone. _Ros had been watching Ruth Evershed's face and seen the hurt and disappointment on it. Harry's reaction was understandable – Lucas had been his protégé way back when, _and_ he had eight years of guilty conscience towards him to scrub clean. Just a few hours ago, Ros herself would scathingly have dismissed the analyst's unhappiness as unimportant compared to the need to give Lucas the support he hadn't received two days before. But now … _I'll do whatever needs doing._ Suddenly she knew exactly what 'whatever' was.

"Harry!" As all heads, including Ruth's, turned to her, she said firmly: "Your memory's going. You're taking Ruth out to dinner tonight. I'll take care of Lucas."

Harry turned scarlet, and the junior officers stared at her, mouths gaping open like a three-headed dental patient. A smile that mixed gratitude with incredulity spread slowly over Ruth's face. Ros winked at her.

"_Qui audet adipiscitur." _ She picked up her damp jacket from the chair on which she had thrown it, turned on her heel, and left to go and prove it.

oOoOoOo

_Thank you for reading. Please review! :)_


	20. Epilogue

_The end (a satisfactory one, I hope!) … at last! Thank you to everyone who stuck it out, and an huge extra thank you to all those who took the time to review so regularly. Enormously appreciated._ _PS: The song Lucas plays is John Lennon's 'Woman'._

_EPILOGUE_

"Lucas?" Ros put her head round the door of the sitting room, from which the sound of The Seekers was drifting quietly. "Lucas – oh," as she spotted him fast asleep, slumped sideways in the corner of the sofa like the town drunk. _Well, he's getting some rest, at least. _The doctors at the clinic had warned her that while Lucas should have no physical problems, he should _not_ be allowed to go home alone for a few days. Ros hadn't needed their advice. One look at him huddled deep in an armchair, clutching white-knuckled and staring unseeingly at a book that she knew was only a shield to block out the rain lashing the windows, and she had made her own decision. Stopping at his flat only to pick up spare clothes, toiletries and some of his favourite music CDs, she had taken him to her own home, ignoring the protests she knew were only token. For the first seventy-two hours, and even though Ros would have been the first to admit that she wasn't Carer of the Year material, she had done her best to calm him through panic-riddled nights, and struggled to get him to relax during the day. It hadn't been easy. When she found herself having to cajole a cowering Lucas into the shower by inches – something she could achieve only by getting in with him - she silently prayed that no-one had planted surveillance cameras in her flat. Thankfully, his terror had eventually started to subside, but he hadn't yet suggested returning home, and as long as he didn't seem ready to, neither would she.

She slipped quietly into the kitchen, switched on the kettle, and was reaching for the milk when she saw a bottle of white wine standing next to it in the fridge.

_That's more like it._ She uncorked it, poured herself a glass and stared out of the window. She had assumed that Harry breaking into the week's leave he had granted them both meant the emergence of some new crisis. _That_ she could have coped with. This was much more difficult to swallow.

"Thought I heard you." She span round as Lucas came in, stretching. She saw him register the glass and braced herself. He knew she rarely drank alone. "Everything all right?"

"Of course." The minute the words came out, she knew that they had been too curt for conviction. Lucas's hand gently pressed her shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes were anxious.

"What's wrong? Does Harry need us in?"

"No, no. No." She held up the bottle. Lucas nodded, and she poured a glass. "No, everything's fine."

His fingers cupped her chin and turned her face towards him. "Ros." The single word made it clear he wasn't convinced. "Come on. Tell me?"

Ros felt the familiar sensation of someone pulling a metal band tightly around her chest. She slipped her inhaler from her pocket, and gave herself a dose.

"Was it me he wanted to see you about?" Lucas's concern was obvious. The last thing Ros wanted to do was talk about her interview with Harry – at least not until she'd come to terms with it herself - but it wasn't fair to let him fret after all he'd just been through.

"No," she answered. "Come and sit down, and I'll tell you."

He obeyed, but sat perched on the very edge of his chair like a bird ready for instant flight, gripping his glass as if he intended to use it as a weapon. Ros shook her head.

"_Relax, _Lucas. I said you weren't the problem." She swallowed. "I am."

Two furrows of concern ploughed their way down Lucas's forehead. "_You? _What can you have done? You haven't set foot in his office for best part of a week."

"And I'm not likely to." Ros saw his bewilderment deepen, and could have kicked herself. Her argument with Ruth was beginning to feel like a relaxed, girly chat compared to this. She gritted her teeth. "Towers called Harry in. It seems they haven't taken a final decision yet about his replacement." She saw relief fill Lucas's eyes, lowered her own, and forced herself to go on. "But the men from the ministries have taken soundings. And they _do_ seem pretty certain about whom they _don't_ want." She made an effort at a sarcastic smile that she knew instantly hadn't come off. "So – good news! One thing you can stop worrying about is the terrifying prospect of spending the rest of your career as chief whipping boy for Ice Maiden Myers."

Emotions – shock, confusion and doubt – were chasing each other across Lucas's face so quickly that they were difficult for her to read.

"But that – I mean – Harry was going to recommend that you took over. He's made no bones about it; he _told_ you he would."

"He _did_." Ros stared into the pale golden depths of her wine. "He told them my record speaks for itself." She shrugged. "Trouble is, some of his esteemed colleagues don't care for its tone of voice."

She was trying to keep her tone as flippant as she could, but it hadn't deceived Harry, and as Ros risked a swift glance up at Lucas, she realised it wasn't going to work with him, either.

"What do you mean – that business with Yalta?" He blew a disgusted raspberry. "Ros, everyone's entitled to a mistake! It was years ago. Besides, what about everything you've done since, the number of times you've put yourself at risk - "

Wearily, Ros raised a hand to stop him. She and Harry had already dissected the whole, painfully humiliating issue to death in his office, and it would make not the slightest iota of difference to repeat the exercise. But Lucas had the bit between his teeth, and she could see his indignation rising on her behalf.

"Didn't Harry at least argue your case?" he demanded. "Don't tell me he just lay down and let the bloody Mandarins walk all over him – he's never done that!" When Ros said nothing, he stormed on: "For God's sake, they might not _like _you, but if they want the most able -"

"Lucas." She cut across him. "They've closed ranks. And when you've so offended the Establishment that it does that, ability's irrelevant."

The carefully deliberate indifference of her tone seemed to inflame his anger.

"But Ros, there's nothing in your past or present that would cause that much - "

"Yes, there _is_." Ros's heart was beating uncomfortably fast. She took her inhaler from her pocket.

"_What_?" Lucas flared. "Christ, your copybook can't be more blotted than mine!"

Ros put the inhaler down, noticing that her fingers were unsteady. "You weren't born my father's child," she said, quietly.

The utter incredulity on Lucas's face mirrored her own when Harry had broken the official version of events to her as gently as he could – that Sir Jocelyn Myers's attempted coup, Ros's early involvement with it, and her persistent attempts since his imprisonment to be reconciled with him and the rest of her family rendered her appointment as MI-5 counter-terrorism chief unacceptable.

"I'm sorry, Ros." He had kneaded his face in an all too familiar gesture of frustration. "Believe me, I tried. I reminded them whose intervention brought the damned thing to an end, told them about the Bendorf Group, your trying to save Lawrence … half the bloody JIC supported the damned medal you got for that, and the other half knows that without you _I'd_ still be rotting in Belmarsh as an FSB mole. But it's your father. He was one of them, a member of the elite, bound by its codes. He broke them, turned on his own. _And_ failed – very publicly - after involving others in his failure. It's the ultimate, unforgivable sin."

"However unforgivable they think it is, aren't the sins of the father supposed _not_ to be visited on the sons?" Lucas exploded.

"Gender equality," Ros said dryly. "Now they offload them on daughters instead."

Her attempt to ease the tension failed. Lucas's eyes flashed. "For God's sake, Ros! This is – hell, you haven't been in _contact _with him for what – six, seven years?"

_Not for want of trying._ Harry had poured her a glass of wine that hadn't touched the dryness in her throat, and taken a swallow at his own. "The letters didn't help, Ros. _I _know they're misreading them, but - " he had shrugged helplessly. "It's unjustifiable, bloody unfair, and downright damned _cretinous_. In any other, half-normal job you could sue."

"Letters?" Lucas looked bewildered, so Ros told him what until then only Harry Pearce had been aware of; that she had written dozens of them to her father over the years, trying to mend the breach between them, struggling to explain to him that she understood, longing for reconciliation with a man she still adored despite the hurt he had inflicted on her. Every one had been returned, marked '_sender unknown_'. Unread by him, but scrutinised, analysed and now judged by the powers that be.

"You _wrote _to that bastard?" Lucas looked stunned. "Ros, he was going to commit mass murder! In God's name, _why?_"

She hadn't known what reaction to expect, and the shocked revulsion in his voice was like a slap in the face. Ros felt herself flush. She stood up and lifted her chin defiantly.

"He may be a bastard to you, but he's my father, whatever he's done. Maybe he was wrong, but his intentions were good. I understood that then and I understand it now. He loves his country and he wanted the best for it. They threw him to the wolves deliberately – out of ego and as a warning to others. I knew they'd all prefer to forget, but I won't. I had to turn against him once, but then I knew it was right. I won't do it again, not just to fit their bloody jelly-mould. I _won't,_ Lucas."

Lucas stared at her with an expression that reminded her of the look he had given Mamnoon Hamid during his interrogation. " 'His intentions were good'?" His eyes darkened with contempt. "_Christ,_ Ros." He got abruptly to his feet. "Then maybe they're right. If you truly believe that of a corrupt, greedy wannabe dictator who would have turned this country into a police state, then you really _aren't_ fit to sit in Harry's chair."

Ros's body moved even before the intention to do so was fully formed in her brain. Her palm stung as she hit him with all the strength she could muster. Then she span on her heel and stormed out into the kitchen, ignoring Lucas as he called her name. Somewhere deep inside, she had hoped he would understand. Now a sickening wave of loneliness swept over her, and - the final straw – tears welled up into her eyes. Furious with herself, she reached for the kitchen roll and her arm knocked the wine bottle. A second later it smashed onto the tiles, spattering the dregs of the wine and shards of broken glass everywhere.

_Shit! _Ros bent to retrieve them and, inevitably, cut her hand on one.

"Ros." Lucas had appeared in the doorway. "Let me help."

"Leave. Me. _Alone!_" Without looking up, Ros shoved the door shut in his face. The last thing she wanted now was one of Lucas's guilt-ridden apology sessions. One-handed, she cleared up the glass and gave the floor a cursory wipe. She was awkwardly trying to clean the cut when the music began. John Lennon, this time. She snorted. In addition to being a naïve, judgmental prat, Lucas had the most God-awful sentimental taste in music.

_Woman, I can hardly express my mixed emotions at my thoughtlessness. After all, I'm forever in your debt._

Ros turned on the cold tap and held her hand under it.

_And woman, I will try to express my inner feelings and thankfulness, For showing me the meaning of success._

_Some bloody success. _She dried the cut and dabbed a pad of kitchen roll along it.

_Woman, I know you understand the little child inside your man. Please remember, my life is in your hands._

Slowly, Ros stopped dabbing, and cautiously eased the door open. She could see Lucas still in the darkened living room, but he was just one bulky shadow among others.

_And woman, hold me close to your heart. However distant, don't keep us apart. After all, it is written in the stars._

_What a load of mawkish bloody twaddle. _ The cut was stinging, but it was the stinging sensation the words brought to Ros's eyes that bothered her more. She rubbed her free hand angrily over them just as Lucas came to the living-room doorway. He smiled that familiar, tentative smile, and shrugged.

"He says it better than I do."

_Woman, please let me explain. I never meant to cause you sorrow or pain. So let me tell you again and again and again. I love you. Now and forever …_

_Well, you shouldn't! _She would have snapped the words at him had they not been trapped in her throat by an almighty lump that no amount of swallowing would remove. Instead, and to her horror, she heard a strangled sob emerge.

"Ros." Lucas's arms slid round her from behind as she turned quickly to hide her face. She bit her lip hard. "Ros, I'm so, so - " he stopped as she flinched at the touch of his hand on hers. His voice changed. "What have you done?"

"Bottle … it broke." Ros sniffed as he turned her to face him, then looked away as he examined her hand. "Mind yourself – it was all over the floor." She could hear the stifled tears in her voice, and the way Lucas stiffened told her he had, too.

"Ros, don't. Please. Look … I understand. I know you think I don't, but I do."

She shook her head. "You can't."

"No?" She snatched a sideways look at him and caught the expression of anxious tenderness in his eyes. "You and I have so much in common."

"_How_?" She tried to make the word sound disparagingly dismissive, but it came out sounding more like a plea.

Lucas shook his head decisively. "This first." He hurried out and returned swiftly with scissors, antiseptic cream and a sterile dressing.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Ros meant to sound sarcastic, or at least sceptical, but Lucas merely smiled.

"Field Officers' First-Aid Refresher Course." He winked. "I used to be in the Boy Scouts, too. Give it here." Ros, suddenly too exhausted to argue, obeyed, and after a few minutes Lucas muttered his satisfaction.

"_Nu shto zhe._" He looked up at her. "I didn't hurt you again, did I?" Ros shook her head wordlessly. "Good. Once an evening's enough."

"Lucas, you didn't hurt me." Now that her blazing rage had cooled, it took a real physical, and more to the point, emotional, effort to force the words out. "I'm fine. It doesn't matter."

"It does to me." He sat down next to her. "Because I know that's not true. If you get cut, Ros, you bleed, just like anyone else. And I don't just mean by flying glass."

Ros wanted to beg him to stop, but she knew instinctively that he wouldn't, not this time. Over the last few months she had more than once evaded or pretended to misunderstand Lucas's hesitant attempts to express his feelings for her. In his flat she would already have taken the coward's way out and been halfway down the stairs, but even Ros Myers couldn't find a dignified way of fleeing from her own home.

"I'm sorry," Lucas said awkwardly. "_Really _sorry. No excuses. What I said was unforgivable - _and_ it wasn't true." When she didn't answer – not because she was still angry, but because she had absolutely no idea what to say – he added, "But the song … that _was."_

"Lucas, I - " She stopped helplessly. _For God's sake, Myers, what on earth is the matter with you?_ In countless operations, she had charmed, seduced and entrapped men of just about every shape, size and criminal tendency. Many would have happily sent her to an early departmental meeting with the great Director-General in the sky had they known what she was doing. Yet she had never once been anywhere near as - _be honest, admit it –_ as nervous as she was now.

"Ros?" Lucas was watching her with a mixture of doubt and apprehension.

_In this one way you're a rotten bloody coward. _Ruth had never come quite so close to taking a slap in the face herself as she had then. Yet most of Ros's burning anger with her had been caused by the fact that the analyst had hit the target more accurately than any Olympic rifle shooting champion – and both of them had known it.

"Lucas, look, you and I … we're friends. Colleagues and … and friends – we agreed to that. But if - if you're waiting for me to say – to tell you I love you, then – I'm _sorry_, I'm sorry to – hell, I don't know – upset you, disappoint you, whatever it is, but I can't."

Lucas blinked, but he didn't walk away, as she had half been hoping that he would. "Can't, or don't?"

"Either. I don't know – both." She bit her lip. "What's the bloody difference?"

He smiled crookedly. "Well, if you _don't, _but _could_, then I'm a patient man."

Ros swallowed hard. "Then can't. _Won't, _Lucas."

After a moment he nodded slowly. "_Won't_ sounds deliberate. As if you're making yourself do it." He was running his hand round his chin – that giveaway gesture that always signalled tension or distress. "Would you tell me why? Loyalty to Adam?"

Ros shook her head helplessly. That would have been true six or seven years ago, not now.

"Then you just find me a repulsive, tedious fool and you'd rather I never darkened your door again?"

She looked up. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were filled with melancholy.

"You know it isn't that." The '_then what_?' that she confidently expected didn't come, and Ros wiped her hands, which were damp, on her jeans. Her throat felt as if her lunchtime sandwich had actually been made of sand, and her chest was aching. "Let's go and sit down." When they had, she said, "I told you once that I've only loved two men in my life."

"I remember. Adam and your dad."

"Yeah. And I lost both of them - my own fault," as he would have objected. "But I – what I don't want to - _can't - _do is risk that again. You see, all those myths … Myers the Ice Maiden, the Emotional Zombie, all the rest of it - "

"Aren't true." Lucas half-smiled. "Do you think I didn't know that?" Ros shrugged. "So you're scared that something might go wrong again?" She glared at him. "Well, it could - you're not the only one with a past. After all, this _is_ the man whose wife left him, and whose last two girlfriends were shot dead in front of him." He sighed deeply. "Compromise. Forget the S24 form; maybe we should just sign a mutual suicide pact and have done with it?"

"Sod you." Ros tried for a smile, and swiftly wiped her eyes instead. "You might change your mind." She saw the tension in his body relax slightly as he grinned.

"Yeah, and you'd make me go first, just to make sure I didn't."

This time the smile came without effort. For a moment both of them were silent, neither, she thought, wanting to make another wrong move. Finally, Lucas shifted the conversation back to familiar, safer terrain.

"So what happens now, then, about Harry's replacement?" It was a fair question; most officers in Section D had assumed Ros would be appointed, and the prospect of having to adjust to an unknown quantity would unsettle everyone.

Ros gave a wry smile. "Well, since they don't seem able to agree on another of the available _papabili_, they've asked him to stay on for another year."

"Do you think he will?"

She rolled her eyes. 'Do _you_? They used the D-word on him, Lucas. Have you ever known him refuse?"

Lucas grimaced acknowledgement. "Apparently, Ruth told Khalida a while back that she'd bought a cottage down in Suffolk somewhere. I think she got ideas about the two of them settling down in a little rustic idyll together once she thought he'd be retiring. She won't be happy."

"No." Ros said no more. She had crossed paths with the intelligence analyst on her way out of the building. Ruth, who had obviously been aware of why she was there, had said how sorry she was; her indignation had been quite genuine, and because of it, Ros had managed to respond with grace and a few self-deprecating comments. Ruth had also whispered that she had accepted Harry's proposal of marriage (_'I've only told you, Ros, I know it was you who shamed him into it'_), and Ros, embarrassed at how touched she had been by being let into the other woman's confidence, had promised to keep the secret.

"And … er …" Lucas was clearly reluctant to frame the question. "They wouldn't still -"

Ros shook her head. "Oh no, they'll tolerate me – as long as Harry's there to keep an eye on me. Rein me in if I show signs of doing a Pinochet. They're probably already tracking the money trail for those leather boots I bought last winter."

She knew when Lucas slipped an arm around her shoulders that bitterness had smothered her usual dry wit.

"And you will – stay, I mean?"

Ros shrugged and flicked her hand towards the inhaler she had left on the table. "It's not up to me, is it? It's not just my background and my politics that are suspect."

Lucas toyed with a few loose strands of her hair. Then he said tentatively: "You see, that's what I meant." He cleared his throat. "When I said we had so much in common. The clinic would have kept me in if you hadn't come and picked me up, Ros." He sighed. "And they're not happy; I've still got to go back to the shrinks … _again_."

"You'll get it under control," Ros said gently. "It's just time and persistence. And a bit of help. Recognising the triggers and learning how to disarm them. You can do it with bombs, after all."

"Exactly." His gaze was intent now. "Same goes for that." He pointed at the inhaler. "Maybe you won't get your triple A physicals back, but we can make it a lot better. If you _really _do your swimming and the exercises regularly, like you're supposed to have done."

Ros bristled. "Who says I haven't?"

Lucas's mouth quirked into a knowing smile. "_More _regularly, then. We could kill two birds with one stone – if I swim with you then maybe I could learn to stop shaking like a rabid dog whenever I get close to water. A bit of help goes both ways."

"Oh great." Ros rolled her eyes. "Pick and Mix the bits that work properly. The bloody Bionic Intelligence Officer. That's a hell of a thing to have in common." _Not to mention that both of us have been rank bloody fools in the past. More blots on our copybooks than off a leaking cuttlefish. _

"Yeah. That and the fact that Harry Pearce trusts both of us – completely - when nobody else really does," Lucas added quietly.

_And neither of us can truly contemplate doing the job without him._ Ros went to speak, and then bit the words back. As hurt as she was at being denied the opportunity to follow in Harry's footsteps, part of her was relieved to know that she would be able to rely on his experience, his support and his friendship on the Grid for a little while longer. But she didn't want to admit that to anyone else. Not yet, anyway. One day she might tell Lucas. That and possibly other things … possibly.

"What a pair." Lucas picked up the remote for her stereo system, and Ros, smoothly and decisively, took it from his hand. There was a limit to the number of Lucas's beloved slow, sentimental, thirty-year old ballads that she was prepared to take.

"Hey!" he protested. I've got the Beatles on there! Let It Be, Come Together, All You Need is Love - "

"The Fool on the Hill?" Ros's smirk dissolved as he triumphantly pinned her into something approximating a judo _ippon_.

"Get out of that one, Myers."

Ros squirmed, tried to kick free, and then unwillingly subsided into a cramped immobility. She wasn't sure whether this constituted a Triumph or a Disaster, and was surprised to find that for the moment at least, she didn't really care enough to make the distinction. For form's sake, she glared at him.

"I concede. For now."

Lucas beamed. "_Ura! Pobyeda maya. _Victory is mine." He relaxed his grip just enough to allow her to sit up. "Gold medal in the pairs competition, then?"

Ros rolled her eyes. "I think Podgy and Bliss get that."

"Who?" Lucas looked blank – _thank God, _Ros thought with a shudder. She had almost betrayed Ruth's most precious secret. _Some bloody intelligence officer you are, Myers._

"Classified." _For now. _She allowed herself a private smile."Don't worry about it, Lucas. Can't win them all." She leaned back into his arms and looked up at him. "_If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, And treat those two imposters just the same - _"

"Then you're one bloody happy MI-5 man." He grinned and kissed her. "You just survived this year's Olympic Games."

oOoOoOo

_THE END_


End file.
